


Beloved By All Who Meet Her

by LondonPrettyBoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-03 00:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 67
Words: 109,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonPrettyBoy/pseuds/LondonPrettyBoy
Summary: On a seemingly routine hunt, Sam and Dean stumble upon another figure from legend; her parting gift to Sam leaves Dean worried. Their subsequent search for answers brings them closer than ever.





	1. A Parting Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I'd love to hear both praise and suggestions! I'm going to be doing chapters of a few vignettes (or just short chapters, depending on the length of the scenes), but may branch out into larger chapters as I get further into the story. I'll try my best to update weekly. Thanks for reading!!

_Oh come on,_ Dean thought as he found himself flying through the air and into the dirty cement behind him, letting out a loud grunt and sliding to the floor, stunned. He was getting awfully tired of creatures with the ability to fling him around like a ragdoll with nothing but a wiggle of their fingers. His current opponent, a witch by the name of Endria, simply giggled sweetly and tossed her shimmering black locks over her dainty little shoulder. Dean caught himself staring at her hair…again. As much as he hated her, he had to admit she was easily the prettiest witch they had ever met. Maybe even the prettiest monster period. Still, he was glad Sam had warned Dean off of his advances. He was also glad he listened for once. If he hadn’t, he probably would have been her next victim, another indiscernible bloodstain in some forgotten basement rendezvous. 

He could see through the stars in his eyes that Sam had taken up a good position behind her, witch bullet aimed right at her chest. That is, if she would turn around. She still had her gaze pinned hungrily on Dean, the one she had declared was “more to her taste.” Dean glanced at the smudges of red on the floor and shuddered. _Gross_. She slithered forward, hips swaying, long manicured nails reaching for Dean’s jaw. _Great, a chin grabber_ , he thought as he clambered back to his feet and stumbled away. _I hate those_. He shook his head in an effort to reorient himself. Sam tried to take a shot from the side and missed; the bullet shattered uselessly against the wall. Endria’s head whipped around to face him, nostrils flared. It seemed she knew the smell of witch-killing brew and was none too happy to know they had it loaded into a gun. She waved her fingers and flung him forcefully against the far wall. The gun tumbled from his hands. She slammed him backward and used some of the sparse furniture to pin him. Dean could see the veins flexing in Sam’s strong arms, but the two now enchanted chairs easily managed to hold him. Dean took the opportunity and dove for the gun but collided instead with a heavy cabinet she had sent his way. He felt his head hit the concrete with another sickening crunch and struggled to stay conscious. When his eyes finally regained their focus he found Endria crouched in front of his brother, both hands holding his head steady as she stared into his eyes. Sam couldn’t break eye contact, caught now by the “snakecharm” spell she had used to get all of her victims down into this lair of hers. Fear, pain, and confusion clouded his expression. 

“Sammy…” Dean managed a slurred shout. He pulled himself into a sitting position and began scanning the ground, his sense of urgency muffled by the new concussion he sported. “I’m comin’, Sammy.” The gleam of steel caught his eye under a nearby table; he scooped the weapon up and clumsily took aim. “Hey! Over here, bitch,” he shouted, his senses slowly becoming clearer. She cast a sly glance in his direction before turning to Sam and sinking her teeth into his neck. Sam jolted and let out a hoarse scream, fruitlessly struggling with all his might to free himself.

And just like that, Dean had regained his feet. She bit even deeper and Sam’s screams elevated before falling sickeningly silent, his head falling limply onto his shoulder. Dean’s stomach, which had been churning from the concussion plummeted into his gut. Everything in his vision went white, then red, and before he knew it he had spun her around, shoved the barrel of the gun against her chest, and pulled the trigger. She gasped and let out a breathless laugh before uttering six unbearably ominous words: “Just leaving a going away present.” That was all she managed before erupting into a swirling vortex of witchy defeat and collapsing into a small pile of ash. 

Dean was already kneeling by Sam’s side, flinging the chairs away from his bruised wrists and scooping his lolling head up in a tenderly protective grip. He turned Sam’s head to the side to survey the damage. A complicated symbol sat freshly carved into his skin, blood still trickling down into the collar of his shirt. The cut didn’t seem deep, but Dean had no clue what that symbol meant. Panic fluttered in his chest. 

“Sam.” He tried. Sam’s body sagged lifelessly against him.

“Sammy.” His voice cracked slightly. “Sammy, please…” Sam’s skin was still warm, and when he checked there was a faint but steady pulse. But beyond that Sam showed few signs of being alive. 

Dean thought he would choke on the fear. “Oh, Sam.” He pulled his brother’s head against his chest and hugged him close, sending out a silent prayer to whatever might be listening to let his brother wake up. After a few seconds of silence Sam stirred feebly against his chest and Dean pressed him tightly into his shoulder, thankful that this time his prayer had been answered. 

“Dean…” Sam managed, voice raw with pain. 

“Shh. I’m here, Sammy.” Dean let out a shaky laugh, trying hard not to squeeze the life back out of his barely revived brother. “I’m here.” Sam tried to turn his head and flinched, letting out a feeble groan. Dean finally let go and ripped his already torn sleeve the rest of the way off, pressing it over the fresh wounds on Sam’s neck. It would have to do until they made it out of the warehouse and back to the first-aid kit in the Impala. Sam seemed to recover quickly and took over applying pressure. Relief made Dean woozy. Or maybe it was the concussion. Either way, it was a challenge to climb to his feet. Thankfully, Sam too was able to stand on his own, and even supported Dean as they made their way up the rickety wooden stairs and out of that godforsaken basement turned murder-den. Once they had reached the car, Dean insisted on providing first-aid for Sam’s cuts. Sam eyed him doubtfully as he swayed in front of the trunk, but didn’t argue. After watching his brother struggle for a few minutes, Sam took the gauze from him gently and finished the job in seconds. “Are you sure you’re okay, Sam?” Dean inquired, glancing worriedly at the gauze that hid the unidentified mark on his little brother’s neck. 

Sam gave him a faintly sardonic smile. “I’m doing better than you are. Get in; I’ll drive.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it as he noticed with irritation that the trunk kept moving just out of his reach. With a sigh he fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them over the car to Sam. They landed three feet away in the dirt. Sam quickly bent over to snatch them up and hide the smirk on his lips. 

“Shut up,” Dean managed as he climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. Sam was careful not to say a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's chapter two! I ended up getting further than I thought this week, so I added a little extra to this chapter. Enjoy!

Sam pulled gingerly at the medical tape on his neck, wincing as it tugged at the softened skin. Dean, annoyed that Sam had deemed his concussion bad enough that he shouldn’t sleep for a while was watching porn loudly on his laptop. Sam sighed, wishing he could be anywhere else. Ignoring the sounds outside the bathroom for now, he turned back to the mirror to examine the wound his brother had insisted formed a symbol on his neck. He leaned in carefully, hands resting on the stained linoleum counter. His eyebrows tugged together in thought as he saw very quickly that Dean was right; a complicated series of lines ran up the left side of his neck, forming what looked like a pair of lightning bolts surrounded by several spheres. Pulling out his smartphone, he snapped a quick picture as a reference for the unavoidable research that loomed ahead of him. He hoped that with the witch dead the mark would have been neutralized, but the faint tingling beneath his skin suggested otherwise. He just hoped he could get rid of the thing before he found out first-hand what it was meant to do. He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair and pushing it away from his forehead. It tumbled back into place without delay.

He tried to search through his memory for whatever it was Endria had found that so interested her. When she had captured his gaze it had given her a door into his head. Having someone sift forcefully through your memories was not fun. It was even worse that she had hidden her search from him. Only flickers and colors had registered in his own vision as she searched. “How interesting,” she had said, lip curling in scorn. A rosy tint flickered in front of his pupils. “It’s okay if it takes a while…so long as it triggers eventually.” And with that she had set about her work. Sam shuddered, the thought of her teeth on his skin as fresh as the wound it now sported. 

A loud bang on the door grabbed his attention. “Sammy, you okay in there?” Dean’s gruff voice, still echoing with worry, sounded through the door. Sam quickly replaced his bandage and flushed the toilet, flipping on the water faucet to simulate the sound of washing hands. 

“Yeah, Dean, I’m good.” He opened the door and gave his brother a smile. It was true, for now. No sense in showing Dean just how worried he was. Dean was already concerned enough as it is. Dean watched Sam’s face quietly for a second before responding. 

“I’m so glad I killed that bitch.” He growled through his teeth. “What kind of sick freak uses their mouth to do that?” He gestured vaguely at Sam’s neck. 

Sam placed his hand over the bandage, letting out a huff of amusement. “That kind of sick freak, apparently.” Dean was focused on Sam’s hand, the faint scrunch in his brow revealing his concern despite his efforts to joke. Sam smacked him on the shoulder. “Stop worrying, Dean.” He said with a warm smile. “I’m seriously fine.” Dean nodded and averted his eyes, glancing instead at the neon green clock glued crookedly to the far wall. Sam followed his gaze. “Just wait thirty more minutes, Dean. Then you can sleep for as long as you want.” Dean just shrugged, flopped back into his chair and clicked play.

 

The drive back to the bunker was uneventful. Sam noted that the tingling in his neck had faded to a dull ache, something he could easily attribute to the physical wound. He found the thought comforting. Dean was glad to be back at full speed and behind Baby’s steering wheel once again. He just didn’t feel right in the passenger’s seat. The familiar weaving of back country roads and the powerful purr of the engine helped to settle his nerves a little. Being cooped up in a motel had left him no room for anything but worry. As they drove Dean would occasionally glance at Sam when he thought he wasn’t looking. Even with calmed nerves, that mark worried him. Nothing good ever came out of a witch encounter, and the fact that their research had turned up next to nothing did little to comfort him. 

They thought it was sigil magic based on the stroke-work and asymmetrical patterning, but it was nothing like any of the sigils they had encountered before. Not to mention most sigils were aimed at good rather than evil. They themselves had used sigils to ward against all manner of creatures, and the Men of Letters bunker they called home was saturated with them. There seemed to be little information online about using sigils for darker purposes, and none of the patterns on Sam’s neck matched up with traditional sigil work. That likely meant the bitch-witch had been improvising. The only other witch they knew who improvised that much, Rowena, was considered so bad she had even gotten herself kicked out of the Grand Coven, who had their own list of nasty villains. She was also mother to Crowley, King of Hell. He and Sam had agreed not to ask her for help unless they absolutely had to. They had no promises she would tell the truth, and if there was a way for her to exploit it, it wasn’t even a question that she would. No, until they had exhausted the bunker library’s resources, they would leave that stone unturned. 

“Dude. Stop staring.” Sam’s deep voice pulled Dean from his thoughts. He gave Dean the smile he always used to try and soothe his brother’s nerves. Dean wondered if Sam knew just how much that expression actually worried him. It was the same one he used whenever he was hiding something for Dean’s sake, so Dean knew it well. Sam had continued, unable to hear the quiet rumbling of Dean’s thoughts. “I’m seriously fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” He let out a soft sigh, eyes drifting back to the road. “We’ll just have to wait until we get home. Then we can figure out what it means.”

Dean couldn’t keep his thoughts quiet. “And what if it starts doing things before we make it back? I’m worried, Sam. You heard what she said! Paired with what she told me, I’m twice as worried.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he remembered all of the witch-related deaths they had seen. Seeing his brother go through any one of them would rip him to pieces. Even last night’s memory of Sam’s screams, of his body going limp against the wall left him shaken. “If anything changes, Sam, ANYTHING, you tell me. Got it?” Sam saw the tautness spread through Dean’s torso and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dean pursed his lips, unsure whether the gesture comforted him or just drove home how much the loss of his brother, and such a gesture, would break him. 

“I got it, Dean.” Sam’s tone radiated warmth, trying to soothe his brother. There was no hesitation when he spoke, which told Dean that he wasn’t hiding anything from him...yet. Dean sighed, flashed Sam a quick smile and reluctantly accepted that until they were back at the bunker there was nothing he could do. But something still fidgeted in Dean’s stomach. He wanted this thing off of Sam as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAND here's your bonus! See you all next week!

Another two hours of road-time and a quick stop at a local diner for some dinner (and pie) saw them safely home. They left most of their stuff in the car, grabbing their backpacks and heading straight for the library. Sam was tired from the drive but Dean was determined to fit in some research before bed. Not wanting to leave his brother alone to fret all night, Sam stifled another yawn and joined him. He collected all of the books they had on witchcraft and sigil magic and stacked them on the end of the table. Dean grabbed the seat directly across from him and flicked on one of the little amber lights before selecting a tome of the top of the pile. After an hour of little progress Dean broke the silence. “You think Cass might know something?”

Sam was rubbing his tired eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “I dunno,” he offered noncommittally. “Maybe? It’s not like it’s his specialty but he has been doing some hunting of his own recently. He might have encountered something.” That seemed to be good enough for Dean, who snatched up his phone and stepped into the other room to make a call. Sam sighed again, turning back to his own research. _Sigils are more effective and reliable when directed toward a positive will, like safety, health, fertility, or love._ Sam honed in on this sentence, which had until now been floating in a choppy sea of irrelevance. He quickly turned the page to the next paragraph. _Harnessing sigils with an evil will renders most sigils weak and unreliable. These negative sigils have been known to inflict minor damage on all that come in contact with it, including on occasion its creator._ Sam huffed in hopeful relief. While this didn’t confirm that the mark on his neck was indeed a sigil, if it was it meant that it likely wasn’t lethal. 

Dean entered right on cue. “Find anything?” 

“Sort of, yeah. Here.” He pointed to the passage he had just read. Dean leaned over the text, hand resting loosely on the back of Sam’s chair. Sam watched closely as Dean’s taut expression softened with each word he read. By the time he reached the spot where Sam had left off, his face had shifted from one of worry to one of skeptical hope. 

“It’s a start,” he huffed, not willing to relax completely. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before resuming his seat. 

Sam smiled and let out a soft breath, glad that his brother had relaxed at least a little bit. The aura of tension that had been radiating off of Dean for the last few hours had finally subsided to normal Dean-is-worried levels. He caught himself rubbing his hand over the bandage on his neck again; the skin underneath had been prickling hotly for the last half hour. Not wanting to alarm Dean any further, he tried to ignore it. He glanced at Dean, who had his head buried in a book almost identical to his. Maybe if he excused himself to bed, he could take a look at it without arousing Dean’s suspicions too much. Maybe he could get Dean to go to bed as well? Heavy bags still nestled under his brother’s eyes, darker than usual thanks to his enforced sleep deprivation the night before. Sam felt his lips pursing with concern. Dean had been letting himself run on empty far too much lately. If he kept it up it might just kill him. But Sam would die before he let that happen. He stood and let out an obvious yawn. 

“Night, Dean.” Sam said as he started off toward the bedrooms. He expected to hear a grumbled response or the loud thud of his brother shutting his book. Instead he felt Dean’s warm grip land firmly on his shoulder; Dean had stood so quietly Sam hadn’t even heard him. His heart couldn’t decide between leaping into his throat or slipping into his stomach, so it did both. 

“Lemme take a look at that before you go,” Dean offered quietly. Sam could tell from his tone that Dean had read him like an open book. He had assumed that Dean was so distracted with research that he wouldn’t have noticed Sam messing with the bandage. He didn’t know that Dean had become attuned to his every movement, watching judiciously for some sign of trouble. He wasn’t about to let his brother hide any symptoms from him, and knew that Sam would do exactly that given the chance. So every stretch, every yawn, and especially every motion related to Sam’s neck registered clearly in his periphery. 

Dean didn’t wait for Sam’s response, pulling the bandage off with gentle fingers. Sam marveled at Dean’s mild touch, soft even with hands that were thoroughly trained in stabbing, shooting, and strangling monsters. That was why Dean was always in charge of first aid; Sam could get it done, but his work often left scars. Dean could wield a needle with such finesse that Sam had half the scars his brother did. 

Dean inhaled slightly and frowned when the scars came into view. The cuts had completely healed, much too quickly to be natural. In their place stood deep purple lines; more marks had spread from the initial mark and created a complicated overlay of curving intersections and circles. In its current state it still looked incomplete, like there was still the potential for more to grow. 

“Why’d she gotta be so thorough,” he grumbled as he snapped a picture and handed his phone to Sam. Sam huffed in annoyance; this added who knows how much time to their research. Sigils they knew. Sigils that progressed after the caster had already died? Not so much. 

“Any word from Cass?”

Dean shook his head. “Not yet. Left a message.” He was watching Sam’s face closely, a silent question rumbling behind his solid gaze. “How does it feel?” He said, his tone relaying his actual meaning: _Were you trying to hide this from me?_

Sam shrugged. “It was itching, but all cuts itch. I just thought it was healing.” His tone was light, non-committal. 

Dean wanted to smack him upside the head. “That counts as anything, Sam.” _Don’t hide it from me_. Sam let out a laugh and threw Dean a look that suggested he thought his brother was seriously overthinking things. Dean just sighed. “Does it still itch?”

“A little.” 

“Hm.” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder again, from the front this time, and pushed him down into a chair. Sam landed with a heavy thump, not willing to fight his brother after accidentally almost hiding something pretty important from him. “Will it hurt if I touch it?” Sam shook his head. Dean kept his grip on Sam’s other shoulder as he ran the fingers of his right hand over the marks, searching for any scarring. He worked diligently, checking each line with soft fingertips. One line seemed to extend farther from the original mark than the others, heading straight up the neck toward Sam’s ear. He followed it slowly, wondering why it also seemed to be lighter than the rest of the scars. Sam shifted suddenly, reaching up and pulling Dean’s fingers off his neck. “Sam?” Dean asked, tone tinted with concern. 

“That tickles. Stop it.” He gave Dean a small smile. Dean lowered his hand and stepped away without complaint, keeping a very close eye on his brother as he regained his feet. Nothing seemed amiss; Sam’s face just seemed a bit flushed. After considering their proximity a moment ago, Dean colored slightly himself. Sam excused himself and made for the showers, hauling his backpack over his shoulder as he went. He rested a hand loosely on the left side of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the monstrously long delay in posts!! A lot of stuff happened, including the death of my computer, but now I am armed, dangerous, and back on track! Thanks so much for your patience.This snippet is pretty short, I know, but I will make sure to add a couple of additional chapters this week and next week to make up for the lack of story over the last two months.

Sam shut the door to his room and leaned against it, warmed through from the shower he had sorely needed. He was thankful Dean had left him alone after that weird exchange in the library, since he had half-expected him to com charging after him demanding a better answer. Sam had lied, and Dean knew it. Rather than feeling ticklish, a wave of unfamiliar heat had rolled through Sam’s body, and shortly after a sharp pain had burned through the scars, so clear he could almost feel it moving through the lines that covered his skin. Dean’s proximity seemed to be the cause, Sam wondered why he had been so aware of it. From the moment they had returned home Sam’s attention had been split between worrying about Dean and worrying about the mark. When Dean had come up behind him, the warmth of his hand on Sam’s chair had registered so strongly that Sam wondered how he had never noticed things like that before. And Dean had gotten even closer after that; Sam felt himself flush at the memory. It didn’t help that Dean was acting differently himself. Usually their contact was limited to playful smacks to the head or shoulder, and the occasional bromantic hug whenever the “chick flick” moment (as Dean referred to it) called for it. Sam knew Dean had meant nothing by it and felt guilty for thinking over something so trivial. But feeling Dean’s hands on both sides of his face, and the warmth of his breath on his cheek as he looked over the mark had brought Sam closer to something he suspected he had been avoiding for years. He took a shaky breath and swallowed it again, turning his attention to what should probably be more important. He shuffled across the room to the small picture frame that sat on his desk, twisting it until he could catch a shadow of his reflection in the glass. The image of his scar made him shut his eyes with a heavy sigh. Now the line that Dean had been examining sported three new branches of markings, spreading out across the skin below his ear. _So much for the theory of it wearing off,_ he thought with another sigh. It was probably better to avoid any contact with his brother until further notice. As long as he did that there was no reason to tell Dean about what had just happened. There was no sense in worrying his brother further.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look for more chapters in the next few days! I'll try my best to catch up!

A loud clang announced the angel’s arrival the next morning. Both brothers, who had been unable to sleep soundly, were perched at the center table amidst tall, messy piles of books and papers. Castiel took in the mess, his ragged friends, and the knot of worry knit deeply into Dean’s brow. “I got your call,” he offered to Sam and Dean who stood up and approached him in unison. 

“And?” Dean said, tone sharp with stress and exasperation. The wrinkles in his clothes suggested he hadn’t changed in a couple days, and likely hadn’t slept at all.

“And,” Cass offered, “I came to take a look at it.” He approached Sam, gaze already locked on the strange mark that almost seemed to glow on his neck. It wasn’t something humans could see, but even grounded his angel eyes afforded him a little more insight. He wrinkled his nose as he got close. “You said she did this just before she died? What did she use to draw it?”

Sam’s lips curled in disgust. “Her teeth.”

“Hmm,” Cass managed, reaching up to touch it. “And some of these occurred after the fact, you said?” Sam nodded. The angel’s fingers grazed over the marked skin, and he noticed an unfamiliar warmth beneath the skin. Based on the thoughtful look in Sam’s gaze, it seemed he had noticed it, at least partially. And based on the fact that Sam kept sneaking glances at his brother who was currently focused entirely on Castiel’s examination, it also seemed like he had not informed his brother yet. Cass sighed. These two humans had a particular affinity for hiding their greatest ills from one another. “Does it hurt?”

“No, I can barely even feel it.” Sam responded a little too quickly, and Cass swallowed a smile as Dean’s attention immediately flipped to Sam. At least they could still read each other, even if they couldn’t be honest. Still, Cass thought it better not to pry in front of Dean. He nodded, accepting that response for now. 

“So?” Dean asked, tone even sharper than the first time he spoke. Cass fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew Dean was only heckling him out of worry, but sometimes Dean treated him like an absolute idiot. He swallowed the hint of earthly annoyance and faced Dean calmly. 

“So,” he said, pausing first to give Dean a meaningful look, “I can’t tell you what it’s meant to do, but I have a guess as to how she did it, and what that might mean.”

Sam saw the sarcasm welling in Dean’s throat and spoke first to prevent another rude comment directed at the angel. “Honestly, we have next to no solid leads, so pretty much anything would help us at this point.” Dean just huffed. Castiel focused his attention on Sam and nodded. 

“I’m sure you have noticed at this point, but that mark is alive. I could smell it as soon as I got close.” Sam’s eyebrows dipped in confusion, but he didn’t say anything. Cass continued. “When she placed that mark on you, she must have believed she wasn’t going to survive the encounter. Magic like this is kept in reserve only for the most desperate of times. She left what I can best describe as a ‘soul-mark;’ she shaved off a layer of her soul and used it like thread, weaving it into your skin to form the spell. I’ve never seen it used with a sigil before, but the concept is the same no matter the spell work. It fuels the spell, keeps it active even after the caster’s death. She attached her intentions to it, and the mark responds to them.” Sam now wore a look that seemed to be a perfect blend of panic, confusion, embarrassment, and disgust. Dean’s brow was now so low it was mashing his eyes back into his skull. Cass found his sudden resemblance to the Neanderthals amusing, but thought now was not the time to laugh. 

“Do you know anything else about this….spell mark?” Dean said, sharpness finally curbed by the new information. 

Cass sighed. “It’s not active yet, which means it has a trigger, and with any spell there has to be a way to break it. There’s no such thing as the perfect spell. Only a clever one, with a well-hidden key. The best way to find the key is to figure out what the spell is meant to do. And hopefully before it does it.”

Sam let out a slow sigh. “So it’s back to the books then.”

“Or we could just stroll down the block to our friendly neighborhood witch and ask her,” dean offered sarcastically, dropping back into his chair and shoving his notes out of the way, gaze back on the textbook in front of him. Sam huffed in agreement.   
“But there is no one around for miles,” Cass said, confused. “And Rowena is hardly friendly; she’s tried to kill you on several occasions.”   
Sam stared blankly at the oblivious angel, and Dean just shook his head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying the work so far? Things are going to start shifting in the next few chapters, so be prepared. I'm going to be introducing some elements that are more clearly separate from the canon universe, so if I don't clarify something completely or you have questions, let me know in the comments below!

Castiel had initially planned to stick around and monitor Sam’s condition, as the angel seemed to be more aware of other possible symptoms that could develop with the mark. He also wasn’t completely sure the caster’s soul wasn’t infected, though he hadn’t shared that piece of information with his friends; sometimes the soul a caster that desperate would fester, especially if that wasn’t their first soul-rending spell. A wounded soul rarely healed well. Until those symptoms developed, however, he didn’t want to worry his friends with the possibility. And after a day and a half of Dean’s stressed sarcasm, Sam’s non-committal responses, and no change in the mark, Cass decided that he would be put to better use researching…..outside the bunker. Sam followed him to the door and apologized briefly for Dean, who hadn’t even looked up when the angel had announced his departure. Cass waved him off. 

“Call if anything changes, please.” He said, looking intently at Sam. Sam sighed, realizing Castiel could probably read him about as clearly as his brother could. The thoughtful looks he had been receiving over the last day made him wonder just how much the angel had noticed. “And be careful.”

“I promise.” He offered up a genuine smile that almost concerned Cass. The younger brother seemed confident that he had already resolved the problem, though he hadn’t shared that solution with the rest of them. “You too.” The angel gave Sam a meaningful look which was brushed off. And with that Cass took his leave. 

Three days later, Dean had hardly left his seat. Bags weighed heavily underneath his eyes, which had faded from their normal vivid green to a pale green-grey. While he had showered and changed at least once since taking up his post at the research table, the constant burden of his worries kept him looking washed out, rather than clean. He was determined to find a way, some way, to reverse that confounded spell, or remove the soul, or just transfer the damn thing to his own neck so he wouldn’t have to worry about what it might do to his brother anymore. Sam didn’t seem to be showing any adverse symptoms so far, and Dean wanted to keep it that way. He was afraid that if they just left it as is, with the trigger unknown, that one day he would turn around and find Sam lying on the floor, cold and stiff. Whenever he shut his eyes that image danced in front of them, warding against any chance of restful sleep. 

Sam was just the opposite; he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care about the mark. It had actually stopped hurting for real this time, and hadn’t expanded since the night they had returned from the hunt. After the first night of fitful sleep, Sam had taken the research pretty seriously. But after finding that passage in the book, and after deciding to limit contact with his brother, he found himself apathetic about the mark. As long as it didn’t act up, there were more important things to focus on. After deciding that, he had had the most restful sleep in years. Now if only Dean could do the same. 

Pretty sure his brother was somehow linked to the spell’s trigger, Sam wanted to find something, anything else to occupy his brother’s mind. For all Sam knew his obsession over the thing WAS the trigger. But he couldn’t just say that to Dean; knowing his brother would start blaming himself for Sam’s mark, and Dean didn’t need to wear any more guilt than he had already forced on himself. In an attempt to distract him, Sam had found a couple of possible cases in the nearby states; but Dean had barely given them a second glance before returning to his reading. Sam had to admire his dedication to the research. He read almost as much as Sam usually did, though Dean insisted that was an exaggeration. “How could I ever reach your level of nerd, Sam?” He had offered once with a light-hearted smile. Sam had been glad just to see that, brief as it was. 

A week passed, and finally Sam had had enough. Dean looked like a walking corpse, and now refused to even leave the table. He had been reading the same paragraph for three hours, but kept insisting that he was almost on to something. Sam really wanted to clock his brother on the jaw and knock him out cold, but after Dean’s concussion from the last hunt he didn’t want to add any additional damage. Instead he took a dose from his stash of sleeping medication and dissolved it into his brother’s coffee. Sam was thankful he had decided to sneak some from the pharmacy where they had worked a case a few months ago. He laughed at the memory; they were hunting a junkie turned werewolf, who despite being unable to feel the effects of his old favorites had continued his habits, and in a fit of desperation began robbing local pharmacies to try and get his fix. Ironically, he had been strong enough to resist the urge to eat hearts for months, so focused on his drug problem’s problem instead. The only thing that had given him away were the constant sightings on the lunar cycle by the overnight janitorial staff. They caught him easily, his arms so full of opioids he couldn’t even run. Sam almost felt bad for the guy, but knew a monster that unstable was nothing but dangerous. 

Although Dean was usually pretty good at detecting drugs in his food, his sheer exhaustion prevented him from noticing, and within about half an hour he was sleeping soundly on the table. Not quite satisfied, Sam tucked Dean’s arm around his neck and hoisted him out of the chair, awkwardly carrying him back to his room and thankful for once that Dean had insisted on having the room closest to the door. Dean’s head lolled gently on Sam’s shoulder. As Sam sat him down on the bed and lowered him onto the pillows, he mumbled Sam’s name, clearly worrying over his brother even in his drug-induced sleep. Sam let out an exasperated breath and smacked Dean lightly on the forehead, not enough to wake him, but hopefully enough to refocus his thoughts for the night. Dean quieted, and Sam wondered with a quiet laugh if it had actually worked. He exited the room without ceremony, muttering a passing, “g’night, Dean,” as he pulled the door shut behind him. He tried to ignore the warmth Dean’s arm had left on his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so some spoilers are coming up, so if you are not up to date on the series, turn back now! I'm not going into too much depth but I am bringing up characters that are encountered through season 10 at least. I'll try to keep it vague in case you are trying to catch up, but you have been warned! I promise that romance is on the way, but like I warned you, this is going to be a really slow build. I like it when things simmer, instead of just boiling over. So be patient, enjoy the read, and leave a comment below!

It is exceedingly difficult to wake up pissed when you are drugged, but as one of the most stubborn men on earth, Dean Winchester deftly managed it. His eyes fell on the clock when he woke, informing him that he had wasted the last 15 hours on sleep. One smack of his lips told him that it wasn’t a natural sleep, either. He ignored the fact that he finally felt rested, instead thankful that he now had the strength to effectively punch his idiot of a little brother. He lurched to his feet, still groggy from the previous day’s dosage, and stumbled to the door. “Sam?” He shouted irritably. His recent sleep thickened his voice, and it took him a couple of tries to clear it. “Sam?” He tried again. There was no answer. Dean headed to the library, sure his brother was there reading and choosing to ignore him. Well, Sam was going to find out just how well that was going to work. He rounded the corner, now fully awake and ready to confront his brother. Except he wasn’t there. 

The knot that had been living in his gut tightened slightly. He checked the kitchens, the firing range, and finally the garage to see if the Impala was even still here. It sat in its normal place, parked by the garage doors and ready to go. Dean checked his watch. It was just after one in the afternoon. Still, he returned to check the one place he assumed Sam wouldn’t be, but hesitated outside the door. “Sam?” he tried, less angry and more worried by the minute. Images of his dreams flickered in the back of his mind. But when he opened the door he found his brother, tucked neatly into his sheets in that particular way of his, sleeping peacefully. Dean let out a heavy sigh, muscles relaxing again. He noticed a residual ache that suggested he had been clenching them a lot lately. Anger followed relief, and Dean found himself storming up to his brother. He grabbed the glass of water that sat on the nightstand and upended it over the bed. Sam awoke, spluttering in shock. He sat up and shot a glare at his brother. Dean didn’t flinch.

“What the hell, Dean?” He asked, panting slightly. Dean noticed he hadn’t been sleeping with a knife or a gun handy, or his brother would have no doubt drawn it on him. He made a mental note to lecture him on that later. For now there were more important matters to discuss. 

“That’s my line, Sam! What the hell were you thinking, dosing me up like that?” He asked, gesturing to the bedroom door with annoyance. 

“I was thinking,” Sam replied tightly, “That you looked like hell. You were so tired it’s not like you were getting anything done in the first place. I just made sure you actually slept so you wouldn’t up and die on me reading books in the damn library!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sam! Do you really have to be so dramatic? I was fine. Actually, I was more than fine! And you know why? Because I was actually trying to find a way to cure the damn thing, unlike you! Do you even want it off?” 

Sam clenched his teeth, biting back a response. Dean always did this. He always tried to push through every problem, and wore himself to the bone doing so. And he always turned Sam’s choice to rest and maintain himself back on him, accusing him instead of not caring about the problem in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t care; he just knew from past experience that they rarely came across the answer to a new problem in a week or two. Some of their more complicated cases went a month or more. If there wasn’t a monster to pursue, more often than not it took months to find a decent lead, and several more to properly pursue it. The fact that his brother always wanted to condemn him for pacing himself infuriated him. Yelling wasn’t going to solve anything. 

But damn was it satisfying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Characters with Spoilers attached ahead!! I only mentioned the basics, but beware looking them up on the supernatural wiki! You will get a ton of spoilers and you won't be able to go back! If you are up to date on the show and just don't remember the name, though, you should be safe.

The brothers went to their separate corners to cool down after their fight. They knew that trying to talk it out at this point would only end in another shouting match, and neither really felt like yelling at each other. They had each said their piece, paired with a few hurtful words laced with their concern for one another, and now it was time to refocus. Sam made sure to make a trip to the library from time to time to grab something else to read. He didn’t want Dean thinking he was slacking, but couldn’t stand to sit in the same room and deal with the passive glares Dean often threw at him after a fight. 

Dean had forgiven Sam mere moments after their fight, but he felt it was important to let his words simmer a bit. He knew that Sam had been a little right; he had gotten himself a bit worked up about all the unknowns surrounding the thing on his brother’s neck. It wasn’t that his concern was misplaced, because he knew there wasn’t one time when he and his brother actually caught a break. It had always been a series of shit-shows, failed rescues, and repeated deaths. Their only break so far was that nothing had successfully kept them dead yet. He didn’t want to have to cross that line again this time. 

Still, Sam seemed to be feeling better than before, and the mark hadn’t developed further since that first night back at the bunker. Dean wondered why that was. It had grown significantly in the first eight hours, and Sam had clearly felt it. Why was it dormant now? While he hadn’t said anything directly, Sam was acting like he already knew what had caused it to spread, and was simply working to prevent it on his own. The fact that he wouldn’t share his theory with his brother worried Dean. What was so secret that he couldn’t even rely on his own brother?

After a few hours of solid work, Dean made his way to the kitchens. Sam had been staying in his room, probably assuming Dean was still mad and needed some space. But Dean’s anger had simmered out hours ago, mostly thanks to the sleep he had just gotten. Which meant that even though he would never say it out loud, Sam had been right. And Dean realized that he had probably worried Sam almost as much as he was worrying himself about the mark. While it was underhanded and dirty, Sam was only trying to help. That meant that even though he wasn’t going to let up on the research, he would make an effort to exercise at least a little more control. 

Dean grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and made his way to Sam’s room. The door was open, and Dean found Sam crammed into the tiny desk, one leg splayed to the side because they both simply wouldn’t fit under the table. He was propped up on one elbow, stretched awkwardly to the side; Dean could tell by the way Sam’s head rested on his hand that he was about five minutes from either changing position, or giving up entirely. Four books lay open on the bed, and the heavy tome Sam had been favoring perched atop the desk amidst papers and file folders. Dean let out an amused sigh. He had no right to say Sam hadn’t been taking this seriously. His meticulous nature wouldn’t let him slack off on the research, even if he didn’t want to do it. 

“Find anything?” Sam asked, turning to face him. Dean had been watching him from the doorway for a couple of minutes without speaking, and the feeling of his eyes on his back made reading surprisingly difficult. 

“Yeah,” Dean replied, curbing his usual sarcasm to keep Sam from getting defensive, “no. Not really.” He tossed the beer to Sam, who caught it deftly and twisted off the cap, letting it clatter on the desktop. Sam let out a quiet breath and opened his mouth to apologize. Dean spoke over him. “I get why you did it, Sam. Just—don’t drug me next time, okay?” 

Sam looked relieved. “Sure. As long as you sleep from time to time.” Dean let out an exasperated breath and took a swig from the bottle in his hand. Sam did the same. They remained like that for a few minutes, comfortable in each other’s company. Then Sam cleared his throat. 

“So I actually did find something, a couple of hours ago.” Sam said, averting his gaze and instead focusing on the sheet of paper that lay in front of him. He knew Dean was now making that closed-eyed annoyed face of his, but continued on before Dean could retort. “I found that passage in this book earlier, which didn’t have any additional info on that section, and I couldn’t find a signature on the notes to figure out which Man of Letters had written it. Usually they sign off on each piece of research, like meeting minutes. 

“But I got the feeling that I had seen this writing style before, you know, the way he uses modifiers on his opening sentences and usually concludes with a really long ending paragraph.”

“You are such a nerd,” Dean interjected, unable to resist. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Do you want to know what I found or not?” Dean just smirked at him. Sam sighed. “I decided to flip through the member archives to see if I could match the writing style to one of the members on file. And I found a match. Remember our dear friend Cuthbert Sinclair?” Dean’s lip curled in recognition of the name. Sam was careful not to linger on the name too long. “As you might remember, he was directly initiated as Master of Spells when he joined the men of letters. He knew all sorts of spells, including but not limited to—“

“Sigils.” Dean said, focus evident in his voice. He let Sam continue. 

“Right. Now, unfortunately, he was such a genius, he rarely took notes.”

Dean sighed. “Great.” He took another swig of his beer. 

“But,” Sam added in the dramatic voice he always used to get to his final point, “his student did.”

“His student?” Dean asked, looking confused. 

“Yeah,” Sam said, a satisfied smile perched on his lips. “Henry Winchester.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 spoilers are present. I repeat. SEASON 8 SPOILERS ARE PRESENT! Read at your own risk. After this chapter we're going to start getting some action outside the bunker, and some development between the characters, so be ready. :)

“Wait. You’re saying that bit on sigils was written by—by our grandfather?”

“Yup.” Sam passed one of the folders to Dean. “Now, there isn’t a lot of extra information, but there is an interesting passage in that case folder. You see, Henry shadowed Sinclair quite a bit before his mentor’s crazy magics got the guy kicked out. So he took notes on a lot of his research.”

Dean frowned. “But I thought Henry hadn’t started a journal yet.” 

Sam shook his head. “He hadn’t. These are more like meeting minutes, like I was saying before. Henry almost had full clearance before Abaddon came in and killed everyone, so for things like basic spell research, he was allowed to be present. They considered it part of their field experience, which they were required to get a lot of before reaching their final initiation. They just gave him a job while he was there. Now, I guess until Sinclair’s expulsion they didn’t notice just how far from ‘basic’ his research had really gone.” Dean nodded slowly, like he understood. But his eyes were focused on the page in front of him. Sam waited for Dean to read the last passage. Dean’s eyes froze at the bottom of the page, before flicking up to meet Sam’s own. 

“Is this saying what I think it is?” Sam nodded. Dean kept going. “No, I mean, this description, it sounds like—“

“Yeah.” Sam said quietly, smile no longer as prominent as before. “Endria.”

Dean swore. “So that bitch TAUGHT Sinclair how to use all of that soul slicing stuff?”

“And not just that,” Sam added, “He also learned how to use others’ souls to power his own spells, and how to steal said souls and place them in objects for later use. I’m pretty sure that when Henry turned these notes in Sinclair’s sentence was set then and there.” Sam laughed darkly. 

Dean was looking at the page again. “This sounds bad, Sam. Really bad.” He looked back up at his brother, watching him closely. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” He said, almost looking surprised at himself. Dean was equally surprised at his answer. “It hasn’t spread in a week now, and I’m sleeping and eating normally, and honestly feel better than I have in a while.” 

“Good,” Dean said, though the look in his eyes suggested he wasn’t satisfied. Sam sighed. “I know this—” he gestured to his neck, “sucks, but until it starts acting up again, I’m not going to drain myself worrying about it. And neither should you.” He gave Dean a pointed look. 

Dean ignored it. “Have you found anything else?”

“I’m working on it.” He gestured to a stack of filing boxes sitting next to him. 

Dean walked over, tossed his now empty beer bottle into the nearby trash can, picked the files up off the floor, and headed toward the door. “Well, let’s work on it together.” Sam sighed quietly as he gathered his messy stack of notes and followed his brother to the library. 

Two days later, and Sam and Dean had read every case file that involved Cuthbert Sinclair. Henry had written many notes, and they had even come across a few in Sinclair’s own hand. Dean had spent hours laboring over his sloppy chicken scratch—apparently if it wasn’t a spell it wasn’t worth writing it down. Nothing else about Endria cropped up, though some information on sigils had appeared. Dean sighed as he compiled a list of the things he had learned:

1) Endria was apparently some big-time witch; some of Sinclair’s notes hinted that the stories she told were centuries old. 

2) Thanks to Cass, they knew the spell on his brother was one of the soul-slicing specialties that Endria had taught Sinclair. According to his notes, once bonded with the spell only the caster could remove it. Which meant Sam was stuck with it. 

3) The mark on Sam’s neck was definitely a sigil; those had been Endria’s specialty. Sinclair had even recorded a few of her sigils, and her “signature” was pretty clear. While the sigils he recorded had notes decrypting the spell’s meanings, none of them quite correlated to Sam’s mark. So they still had no clue what exactly her spell was supposed to do. 

4) Like they had suspected, she had set up the spell to respond to a trigger, which could be any thought, image, color, smell, sound or event the caster chose. The partial expansions of the mark suggested Sam had come close to the trigger, but had not reached it. No matter how Dean prompted him Sam insisted he had no clue what it was. Which frustrated Dean to no end.

5) Sigils cannot kill; well wishes could be twisted to serve an ill purpose, but one could not reverse “long life” to “short life;” It was easier to use things like “wealth” and shift it to “a wealth of misfortune.” Which meant while Sam’s life wasn’t in danger, there were a lot of ways this spell could screw him up, potentially permanently. 

6) Just like her spells had a trigger, in order to keep a spell effective permanently it needed a lock. And that lock typically had a key. Whatever key the caster chose would have to be related to the trigger, but be something that caster thought was such an impossibility that it would never be encountered. 

7) Dean needed to find that damn key, as soon as possible, whatever it took.

Resources exhausted, Sam started looking for cases. Dean was reluctant at first, not wanting to put his brother into the potentially trigger-filled world without a hint of what the trigger was, but Sam pointed out that it was in the bunker where the mark spread the most so for all they knew, the trigger was in the bunker. And in an instant it was settled. Case or no case, they would be hitting the road.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for their first case! I tried to come up with semi-original cases, but if there seems to be some copycatting I apologize. The third case will seem similar to an episode in season 12, but that was entirely unintentional. But developments will start to happen now that they're out in the real world; I promise I'm not just leading you on! Wincest is definitely on the way.

“Found us a case, Sleeping Beauty. In Eureka Springs, Arkansas.” Dean announced from the doorway to Sam’s room as he tossed a crumpled newspaper at his dozing brother. Sam groaned softly as he snatched it up, squinting through his rapidly receding sleep-state at the small print. 

“And how exactly is this our kind of thing?” He asked hoarsely after a minute, running a hand over his eyes. “Sounds like a cut and dry arson case to me.” 

Dean shrugged, his lower lip jutting comically out from his jaw. Sam fought back a smile; his brother always managed to make the strangest faces. And he was most expressive when he was happiest, which meant that Sam loved every single one of his brother’s dopey looks. 

Sam then realized that Dean had been talking at him and he hadn’t heard a single word. 

“—seemed like a normal fire; sad deal, but nothing weird. But then on the second night, there were not one, but three fires. And in two of those, one kid died; the other totally disappeared. And get this—called the local law enforcement to poke out some of the details. Know what I found? All three fires started at the exact same time: 1:33 AM.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “now THAT seems like our kind of thing.” 

“Damn straight; you ready to go?” Dean didn’t wait for a reply, barreling quickly out of sight to go pack his things. Sam gave one last longing look at the bed before grabbing his bag, still packed from their last outing. With a sigh he dumped the contents into his hamper. Luckily he always kept a stack of ready-to-pack clothes handy in case he ever had to leave in a hurry. He swiped them blindly into the bag, grabbed his gun, switchblade, and phone off the desk, and shut the door behind himself as he left. A short walk and he found Dean leaning impatiently on the Impala, bag in the open and waiting trunk. Sam pitched his stuff in, killed the main bunker lights with the switch panel by the door, and climbed in. The car’s engine roared with life as Dean sped them out of the tunnel and back onto the highway. 

 

Dean glared at the decrepit walls as he set up his sheets on the moldy couch. He was so tired of roughing it. What was wrong with wanting running water and a little electricity? Shortly after hitting town, they had discovered a local art festival had the only two motels in town absolutely packed. A three hour drive let them know that full motels were apparently the local theme. Not a single one in a 50 mile radius had any openings. Obviously lacking in choices, the two brothers were now reduced to squatting in a run-down house at the edge of town. Dean had called dibs on the sofa as soon as he saw it; lucky thing, too. Sam got to rough it on the floor. At least Dean had some form of cushion, even if it did smell a bit like fish. 

“Don’t know about you, but I’d like to keep my time here to a minimum. Want to go check out some of the crime scenes?” Sam eyed Dean’s makeshift bed dubiously. The thought of sleeping on that rotted corpse of a sofa made his insides squirm, but he knew that if he voiced it Dean would just taunt him. 

“You go. I’ll swing by the station and see if I can’t get some intel.” _And some coffee and clean running water while I’m at it,_ he neglected to add aloud. He ignored Sam’s pointed look. “Call me if you find anything, ‘kay?”

“Sure.” He glanced at the map on his phone. “Closest one’s only a couple blocks from here. I’ll walk.” 

Dean eyed him. “You sure? I’m happy to give you a lift.” 

Sam couldn’t read into his tone, but felt it was better not to pry. “I’m good.” He eyed the couch again. “And Dean? If that couch gives you bed bugs, you might want to plastic wrap the car.” And with a wave, he strolled out the door. Dean waited until he was out of sight before leaping to his feet and glaring at his to-be bed, searching for any lurking black spots on the weathered upholstery.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean scratched violently at his scalp as he pulled up outside the the little grey box this town called a police station. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the tingling on his skin was psychosomatic. He whispered a preemptive apology to the car as he climbed out and headed to the door. The door creaked loudly, clearly in need of a good oiling. The smudges on the glass suggested it needed a good cleaning too. Still, the floors were all solid, and the carpet didn’t have half as many mystery spots as their new crash pad, so Dean wasn’t going to complain. He strolled up to the main desk, where yet another indignant newbie who had likely been nominated the station’s paper pusher glared sourly back at him. “Can I help you?” 

“Yes, you can.” He flashed his Kinko’ed badge briefly in the deskie’s face. “I’m Agent Waters; I need to speak to your Chief.” The uncaring glare he received in return made him want to smack the kid, but he just smiled wider. “Is he here?”

The officer gestured nonchalantly with his head. “Back office, to the left.” And with that he resumed his typing. Dean made his way to the office in question and knocked briefly on the door, which sat slightly ajar. He read the nametag next to the door. “Chief Donahue? This is Agent Waters with the FBI. Do you have a moment?”

“Come on in,” a friendly voice responded, and Dean pushed open the door to reveal a well-rounded man tucked compactly behind a worn wooden desk. His overly friendly face widened by inches as he smiled at his newest guest. At that moment Dean couldn’t decide whether he hated the whiny kid or the Pillsbury doughboy more here. He slapped on a fake smile as he stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. He waved his badge around once more for good measure and got down to business.  
“Thank you. I’m here to follow up on your progress into the recent arson cases. What do you know?”

The giant smile faltered slightly. “Doesn’t seem like an FBI case to me; didn’t think the Feds cared about a few fires in a small town like this.”

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. The script never changed, no matter where they went. “I’m just going where they point me. So. Leads?” 

Donahue sighed, rubbing a hand over his greying beard. “Honestly, Agent, we got nothing.” Dean’s eyebrow raised slightly, and the Chief continued. “With any fire, based on the level of charring and spread of the flames, it’s pretty easy to determine the start of the blaze. But with these fires? It’s like the flames started everywhere at the same time. Everything in the houses were charred beyond recognition. Well, except for that creepy painting in the first house.” 

Dean’s gaze sharpened. “What creepy painting?” The chief just sighed. 

“I’d show it to you, Agent, but it was taken from the scene last night, right under one of our officer’s noses. No clue how someone would have gotten in and out without detection, but someone managed it alright. Not that the painting would have really told us much about the fire. It was probably just so basted in flame retardant that when it fell to the floor it just got passed over.”

“Why would someone steal a not quite burnt painting?” Dean asked, feigning disinterest. 

Chief Donahue sighed. “Painting was done by a local of ours, Tyrese Barnes; pretty famous in the Arkansas art circuit a few years back. Don’t know why everyone thought he was so good though. The kid just made replicas of his own paintings over and over again and sold them cheap. Then he started copying some other artists’ works, selling them for cheap, got himself into a lot of trouble. Still didn’t deserve what happened though.”

Dean wished Sam were here so he had someone to make a face at. When he was by himself he always had to keep himself looking so serious. “What happened?”

The Chief sighed again. It was like the entire conversation was deflating him. Dean couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Barnes died a few years ago; he was working late on one of his works in his studio; it was really a shack on the back corner of his parents’ property, but he insisted in calling it that. Seems the fella knocked over a candle, and the entire shed went up in one night. All his paintings were destroyed too, except for the one we talked about. That one was hanging in the house itself that night.”

“So how did it end up in the first fire? I don’t remember ‘Barnes’ being in the case report.” Donahue shook his head. 

“Tyrese’s little sister, Ellie, sold the painting a few days ago; she’s a real problem case here. Only sixteen and been to juvie twice. She’s staying with her aunt at her art studio downtown, in the loft apartment. It seems her aunt isn’t exactly a good influence….made the girl sell it from her folks’ house to pay rent. And likely used that rent at Harvey’s bar the next night.” He shuffled a couple of papers around on his desk. “Honestly, we thought maybe she had something to do with the fires, at first. But there was nothing to put her at the scene, no DNA or anything. And since we can’t determine the source of the fire, we can’t exactly prove it was arson at all. But it’s not like four houses just magically go up in flames at the same time, right?” 

Dean laughed sofly. “Well, you’re right about that.” Dean nodded and turned to the door. “Alright, well I’m going to go and check out the scene, see if I can’t wrangle up anything else.” He turned back. “Oh, do you have any coffee, by chance?” 

Donahue nodded at the sour grape at the counter. “Ask Josh to throw a pot on. He’ll get you settled.” 

Dean looked at Josh with aversion. He flashed a pained smile at the officer as he headed for the front desk again. “Thanks.”

\-----------------------------------

Sam pushed what was left of the front door aside as he made his way inside the charcoal ruins. The lone officer posted at the site seemed uninterested in the whole ordeal, and hadn’t really even glanced at Sam’s badge before waving him through. The floorboards creaked tiredly as he ventured around the first floor. He checked his notes again; this was one of the houses that had burned down the second night, the one that had belonged to Margaret and Harry Reynolds, an elderly couple that was now staying with their next door neighbors. Sam had left questioning them until Dean got back with any info from the police station; he figured going in cold wasn’t going to do them many favors.

Shortly after rounding the corner into what was once the living room, Sam noticed a burn pattern on the floor; it seemed like a rectangle of space had been completely untouched by the flames. He ran his fingers lightly over the unsinged surface. A soft vibration in his pocket grabbed his attention. He pulled out his phone and answered it, eyes still on the strange spot. “Dean. Got anything?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” Dean said triumphantly. He quickly filled Sam in on everything he had learned. 

Sam let out an impressed laugh. “Well that explains this,” he said, gesturing at the spot as if Dean could see it. 

“Explains what?” Sam told him about the unburned patch on the floor. Dean sighed. “Well, I guess we need to find that painting, and pronto. I’ll swing by the studio, see if I can’t find Ellie and learn a bit more about it.” 

“Wait, Dean. There’s one thing I don’t get. If there’s only one painting, why were there three fires the second night? Are there more than one of Tyrese’s paintings that survived the initial fire?” He rubbed his eyes. “I think we should check the other houses first, see if there really is evidence of a painting at every scene. And who knows? We may actually find one if we look hard enough. Unless these paintings are getting spirited away, it’s possible one got left behind at one of the scenes.” 

“Makes sense. Alright, be there to grab you in ten. See if you can’t find anything else in the meantime.” Sam hung up and resumed his search of the house. After a short stint of finding absolutely nothing, the Impala’s purr announced his brother’s arrival out front. With a sigh he dusted as much of the ash as he could off of his suit and made his way outside. 


	12. Chapter 12

“Nice,” Sam offered as he gestured to the plastic wrap that now thoroughly coated the interior of the Impala. He fought to keep a straight face, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. 

“Shut up. “ Dean countered. Sam just shrugged as he flopped into the passenger seat. The thin squeak of the plastic under his pants set his teeth on edge, but he refused to let it show. Instead he started going over the info Dean had relayed to him over the phone, making sure everything made sense. And after a brief drive across town, they arrived at the scene of the second fire. The posted officer didn’t even look up from his magazine as they walked toward the tape. Dean looked at Sam and shrugged before lifting the yellow plastic and stepping under. Once inside, both brothers split up, searching room by room for any signs of the elusive painting. In the master bedroom, Dean found the same unmarked square on the floor. “In here,” he shouted as he bent to examine the spot. 

A loud crash brought him to his feet in an instant. “Sam?” He started for the door. 

“I’m fine,” Sam’s voice called from down the hall, strained and followed by a fit of coughing. _Strange_ , Dean thought, _wasn’t he searching upstairs?_ Sam’s looming figure shuffled out of what had been the house’s office. He gestured at the ceiling with his chin, dusting his arms off with annoyance. “Floor caved in.” He tried to knock the grey smudges from his suit with increasing futility, until finally he sighed and gave up. “Any sign of the painting itself?” His expression told Dean to leave what had just happened alone. 

Dean was having difficulty taking his disheveled looking brother seriously. He cleared his throat and adjusted his head, trying to reset his thoughts before he said something that got him smacked. If he was being perfectly honest, the only thing that stopped him saying anything was the fact that the best he could come up with was some dumb santa-chimney joke, and there was no way to spin that to fit the hot August weather and house-ruin rubble. He shook his head and spoke as somberly as he could manage. “Just another mark where it was before it vanished.” Sam nodded, as if he had expected this. After a moment of silence, in which Dean very nearly snorted when he noticed the flyaway hair on his brother’s head, Sam spoke, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 

“What did you say the Aunt did for a living?” 

“According to the chief, she runs an art studio.” Dean watched his brother. “What are you thinking?”

“Not sure,” said Sam, eyeing the mark on the floor. “Cursed object, maybe?” 

Dean pondered that. “But you said it yourself, Sam—there’s no way this one painting was at all four scenes, especially since the last three all happened at once.”  
Sam nodded slowly, “True…but what if the object isn’t the painting? Like a paintbrush, or an easel, maybe? That might even explain the first fire that killed the brother, and why different paintings all caused similar fires…”

“…because they were all touched by the same cursed object!” Dean finished, catching on quickly. He shook his head, eyeing Sam proudly. “I love it when you go all nerd on me.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder, ignoring the unamused look on his face. “So….to the art studio?”

Sam shook his head. “Not until I change first.” 

“You’re right. Better to lose the whole ‘human chimney brush’ vibe before interrogating a grumpy old drunk lady.” _Nailed it,_ he thought proudly. Sam punched his shoulder before stalking off to the car. Dean allowed himself a congratulatory chuckle before following suit.


	13. Chapter 13

The two block stretch of strip mall this town elected to call a downtown looked as worn as most of the townsfolk they had encountered, largely old farming couples with tanned skin and sun-bleached hair, dressed in dirt-dusted jeans and faded baseball caps. The buildings, which had probably started out as red brick, had faded to a muted brown, coated with the same thick layer of dust that had settled on the road. Dean sighed as he watched his freshly washed car turn matte, then brown. 

They turned right on the second street and parked unceremoniously in front of the only white storefront in the whole strip. _Anderson Studio_ had been scrawled across the front in a loopy red script, almost too artsy to be legible. Both brothers eyed each other; this had to be the dirtiest town they had worked a job in for a while. Even though he had just gotten clean, Sam already found himself wishing for another shower. Who knew he would miss the humidity of central Kansas? At the very least, he knew he would never be able to call the humidity pointless again. He was looking forward to solving this case and getting out of this dustbowl of a town. 

The door jingled faintly as they pushed it open. Immediately the smell of paint thinner and whiskey assaulted their nostrils. It was so strong even Dean balked at the fumes. The front of the shop looked deserted, save a half-drunk cup of coffee that sat steaming on the register counter. “Diane Parker?” Dean called, making his way down one of the side aisles toward the back. He stretched out his fingers like he was about to touch something, but a quick throat clear from Sam reminded him why they were there, and he quickly retracted his hands. There wasn’t a response. Sam shuffled down the center aisle, still limping slightly from his tangle with flimsy floorboards earlier. His height allowed him to see into the other aisles, and almost immediately a painting in another room caught his eye. He backtracked and made his way through a narrow archway and into a larger vaulted space, which he could tell from the mountain of art supplies and sloppy countertops was a working studio. And all around the room were nearly identical paintings—depicting a house on fire in the woods at night. 

“Dean.” He shouted without turning. The older brother walked into the room and came to a sudden stop, apparently picking up on the same thing Sam had. 

“They’re all the same.” Dean turned in a slow circle, counting 1, 2, 3,…at least 8 completed paintings, all of the same scene, all in the same shop, and all with the same artist’s signature. He gave Sam a meaningful look. “That M.O. sound familiar to you?”

“Can I help you?” A snide voice asked from the shadows. Both brothers spun around to find a girl who looked to be in her early twenties sauntering out from behind one of the works. 

Sam spoke first. “Ellie Barnes, I presume?” 

Ellie scoffed, thrusting one hip out to the side before crossing her arms tightly across her chest, smiling sharply with her eyes fixed to the floor. She flicked them up to meet Sam’s gaze. “What’s it to you?”

Dean’s eyes shifted between Ellie and Sam as Sam reached into his jacket and pulled out his badge. “My name is Agent Smith; We’re investigating the recent arson cases, and have reason to believe that your brother’s death may have been related.” Dean’s gaze flicked back to Sam in surprise. His brother had used an uncharacteristically terse tone. Usually Sam would take the time to talk it in slowly, instead of poking old wounds so suddenly like that. But he had to agree that there was some vibe coming from this girl that he didn’t like. Her eyes seemed too familiar, too…similar to his own. 

She returned her gaze to the floor, shaking her head and letting out a breathy laugh. “That’s impossible.” Dean cleared his throat and interjected, eyes trained on her to catch any reactions she might try and hide. 

“Well, we’d like to ask you a few follow up questions anyway, if you’d be so kind.” He gestured to a chair by the large art table to his left. She sighed and dropped into the seat, shooting him a brief glare before lowering her gaze again. 

Sam started walking a lap around the room, eyeing all of the paintings lined up neatly. “These your brother’s works?” He asked nonchalantly. She let out an offended breath and leveled her gaze on him. 

“He wishes. No, jackass, they’re mine.” Her voice softened a little, but both brothers clearly caught her next line. “They’re based on one of his, though. His last, in fact.” Her face quickly hardened again, and she turned her gaze back to Sam. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything, though.” 

Sam ignored her last comment, instead continuing on his last line of questioning. “And this work of his…you have it?” 

“No. I sold it. Look, don’t you Agents already have this information? I gave my statement to the cops.”

Dean didn’t even make eye contact, instead directing his eyes at the floor. If she was going to posture tough he didn’t see any reason not to do it himself. “Dotting I’s and crossing T’s. Now.” He flicked his gaze up to catch her attention, eyes narrowed as he focused on her expression. “Who’d you sell it to?”

She sighed. “The old couple whose house burned down last night. But I swear I didn’t do it.”  
“Wait,” Sam said, “Didn’t you sell it to the family whose house burned down two nights ago? The Hoovers, with the two little girls.”

“No,” Ellie quickly corrected, running a hand through her wildly curly hair, “The Hoovers bought one of mine. One of these.” She gestured to the paintings surrounding her. Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Did you use the same equipment to paint all of these?” Sam asked calmly, pretending to be interested in one of the works. 

Ellie shrugged. “Brushes are one in a million, easy to mess them up if you get too into it.” She didn’t offer more. 

Sam didn’t buy it. “What about that easel in the corner? It looks pretty well loved.” Ellie’s eyes flew to Sam’s, bravado quickly fading. 

“No. No one uses that easel now.” Dean noticed how her gaze shifted up and to the left, and he swallowed a faint grin. _Gotcha._

“It was your brother’s, wasn’t it?” Sam said quietly, trying not to let on that he too had noticed how quick and sharp her last response had been. Ellie eyed him for a moment, then nodded. 

“Well, I’m sorry my partner and I had to take so much of your time, Miss Barnes. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll take our leave.” Sam gave her a friendly nod before turning toward the door. He glanced around the room once more, quietly counting the number of covered canvases in the corners. 16, including the ones on display in the room. 

He hoped they’d all be there when they returned later that night.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam and Dean decided to grab takeout for dinner, rather than sticking around one of the local diners for the evening. After muddling through ash and dust all day, their run-down shelter didn’t seem half as bad as it had that morning, and Sam at least felt like he could use a rest. He smothered a big yawn as he grabbed a couple of beers from the cooler on the floor. He handed Dean an open bottle before settling into his chair with a sigh and taking a bite of his slightly stale fries, running a tired hand across the back of his neck as he chewed. 

Dean accepted the beer but paused before digging into his own meal. “How are you doing?” His tone was calm but focused, and Sam could tell that he was thinking about the scar on his neck again. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Sam said, “just the regular bumps and bruises.” He rubbed his left leg, which Dean had noticed him favoring since his fall through the ceiling at the other house. 

“Leg okay?” He asked seriously, making sure Sam knew he wasn’t just trying to make fun. 

Sam cleared his throat, still embarrassed about before. “Fine. It’ll heal in a couple days.” Dean nodded, satisfied with those answers for now. He lowered his gaze and turned to his food. His brother hadn’t winced or paid attention to that scar on his neck since leaving the bunker. While that sucked because it meant they probably couldn’t spend much time there until the sigil was dealt with, it was a price he would happily pay if it protected his brother. About halfway through his dinner, Sam started yawning again. He pushed his food away, offering it to Dean with a look. “I’m gonna catch some shut eye before tonight.” He explained as he wandered toward his sleeping bag. Dean didn’t argue; the more sleep he got, the faster Sam healed. 

A few hours later, he approached Sam. “Sam, Wake up.” Sam didn’t even shift. Dean spoke a little louder. “Rise and shine, Sammy! Time to go!” Again Sam didn’t move. Dean frowned. Usually a shout did the trick. He tried blasting rock music on his phone. Nothing. Finally he gave up and crouched down next to Sam, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and giving him a shake. Sam let out a soft groan and opened his eyes slowly before sluggishly sitting up and running his hands through his hair. 

Dean’s eyebrow creased slightly. “You were sleeping pretty deeply there….you good?”

“Yeah,” Sam croaked, clearing his throat as he found his way to his feet. Dean stood with him. “Yeah, I’m good.” And now that he was awake, he seemed to be. Dean realized he had left his hand on Sam’s shoulder; he quickly removed it. 

“You know, if I’d been a monster, Sam, you’d have been dead.” He knew he was making a big deal out of what seemed like a little thing, but it was very uncharacteristic of Sam to sleep so deeply. Years of hunting had trained the both of them to wake from a dead sleep and be combat ready. 

“Whatever,” Sam brushed him off, clearly ready to go now. Dean shrugged. Sometimes when he was healing Sam did sleep a little deeper than usual. Maybe this was just one of those times. 

After gathering a few basic items, the two brothers set out. 

They coasted to a stop at the edge of downtown, careful to kill the engine before they got within earshot of the studio. The wind and even the dust had quieted now that night had fallen, and both brothers found themselves holding their breath as they made their way around the back of the building. Dean did a lap around the perimeter to ensure all the lights inside were off before giving Sam the “ok” signal. Sam slid his lockpick into the keyhole with expertise, and within seconds the lock clicked and the door swung gently inward. Sam stepped carefully through the dark shop, not wanting to turn on a flashlight and alert any nearby occupants of their presence. They made their way into the side room they had seen earlier in the day and each pulled on a pair of leather gloves; while it seemed touching the paintings weren’t the cause of the fire, neither brother wanted to risk bringing that curse home with them. After several trips to the dumpster out back, all the paintings in the room had been cleared, as had the easel. For good measure, Sam and Dean had even taken some unsigned works, just in case they had been completed on the easel in question. The easel went in last. 

A canister of salt and half a gallon of gasoline later, and the brothers were satisfied with the damage. None of the paintings had survived the direct flames this time, and the easel had been reduced to cindered toothpicks. Both brothers made for the car and sped off. Dean patted Sam on the back with a huge grin on his face. 

“Another job well done. Way to go little brother. “ 

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, eyeing the dumpster thoughtfully as it retreated in their rearview mirror. 

Dean caught his tone. “What?” 

Sam sighed. “I don’t know Dean…I still feel like we missed something.” 

Dean shook his head, “We burned every painting with the same image, and about 10 extras just to play it safe. We even searched upstairs to see if there were any others hiding in Ellie or Diane’s room. There was nothing. It was clear. So we’re done! Case closed. Now let’s get out of here.” 

Sam rubbed his neck. “Can we just….stay one more night? Just to make sure everything has stopped. Just to be sure. “ 

Dean had been hoping not to crash on that infernal couch, but knew that Sam was right. After a moment of quiet he agreed. A few minutes later they pulled up outside their less than favorable dwelling and headed inside. Sam glanced at his watch; the hands read “12:55.” He yawned deeply. 

“I’ll take first shift with the scanner,” Dean offered, eyeing his brother from across the room. 

Sam yawned again. “You sure?” 

“Yeah.” Dean said with a faint smile. “You get some sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.” 

Sam nodded through another yawn as he unrolled his sleeping bag and climbed inside. He was asleep within minutes.


	15. Chapter 15

When Sam woke, he found himself surrounded by flame. The heat of the blaze pressed tightly against his skin, which strained against his brow as his eyebrows shot up in surprise and panic. He quickly kicked himself free of the sleeping bag and staggered to his feet, shielding his face with his arm. “Dean!” Sam croaked, his shout smothered by the dry heat. He stumbled toward the couch to find it empty. “Dean!” 

“Sam!” He heard his brother shout from upstairs. And in moments Sam had crossed the room, ascended the stairs two at a time, and was making his way down the hall as fast as he could. A loud groan announced the falling rafter beam moments before its descent; Sam had just enough time to leap backward, landing hard on his injured leg. 

“Dean!” He shouted, squinting into the flames. He thought he could make out a figure at the end of the hall, but it wasn’t his brother’s silhouette. He shouted his brother’s name again, but heard nothing but the roaring flames in response. He stood and was ready to charge forward when two firm hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back. He jerked his shoulder out of their grip, but found both of his arms captured instead when he stumbled. Two figures pressed themselves on either side of him, restraining him as they pulled him from the building. Sam could tell by the neon in his periphery that the fire department had arrived. Even using all his strength, Sam couldn’t get enough leverage to break away. Instead he felt himself being hauled helplessly down the stairs and into the front hall, toward the front door which stood gaping into the night. As Sam was carried across the threshold, he noticed a painting next to the door that sent chills down his spine: it was a painting of a shack in a forest, identical to the ones they had just burned in the art studio. But this one was different. There was no fire. Only darkness and shadow. It was like the flame had leaped from the painting and into the house.

“My brother’s in there!” Sam hollered, so panicked he didn’t care if he blew their cover. Once, he managed to break free, but found himself flattened by three men before he could make it very far. An officer handcuffed him to an ambulance, both wrists encased in steel. Sam cursed his empty pockets—his lockpicks were in his duffel bag, which was currently turning to ash inside. With no chance of escape, he continued to shout Dean’s name as if it would summon his brother to him, magically carry him from the fire and back to safety. But Dean never appeared. 

After an hour the blaze was extinguished, and a team of firefighters scoured the building. Sam’s breathing was ragged with panic; when the EMT tried to talk him down, he gave the man a few choice words before returning his gaze to the burnt shell of a house. A large man emerged from the house first, removing his helmet and approaching Sam with a dangerously solemn face. Sam’s mind was already spinning, picturing Dean pinned beneath one of the smoldering beams, shouting for his brother and instead dying alone. In three of the fires, someone had either gone missing…or died. If this fire was part of that pattern, then…

Sam didn’t know if he could keep breathing. 

“Where’s my brother?” He managed weakly, eyes stinging. The man gave him a sympathetic look. 

“We didn’t find any sign of remains inside the building. If your brother was in there, it’s likely he escaped.” He gave Sam a moment to breathe, and Sam gasped painfully for air. While this meant Dean might not be dead, it meant he was missing, and Sam was left with nothing but questions. But he knew exactly who to go to for answers. He swallowed as much of his panic as he could control and talked his way out of the handcuffs. He waited until the fire team had left him with the lone EMT before slipping past him and darting away into the darkness. Using a paperclip he had snatched from a medical clipboard, Sam picked the trunk of the car as quickly and quietly as he could. He grabbed salt, iron, and lighter fluid from the Impala’s trunk before climbing into the driver’s seat and popping out the panel below the dash. A little hotwiring later and Sam was speeding back to the art studio. Ellie had clearly known more than she had let on, and now that Dean’s life was on the line, Sam was going to pry it from her any way he could. _Please be alive, Dean,_ Sam prayed silently. _Please just be alive._


	16. Chapter 16

Ellie stood just outside the art studio when Sam arrived as if she had known he was coming. She leaned heavily on the white doorframe, arms crossed like they had been for the whole of their first encounter. But instead of rebelliousness, her expression was one of stress and uncertainty. When Sam climbed out of the car, covered in ash and burns (he hadn’t stuck around long enough to receive any serious medical attention) she left her post and approached him directly. _A good sign,_ Sam thought. _If she’s willing to talk I won’t have to hurt her_. He didn’t even flinch at the coldness of his thoughts. 

“Was there another fire?” She asked, glancing at the dark sky that concealed the smoke mingling with the clouds. When she took in Sam’s expression she flinched outwardly. She looked behind Sam, checking the Impala for his partner. She returned her gaze to Sam’s, eyes hardened to keep herself from breaking eye contact. “Was he taken…? You guys….you’re siblings, aren’t you?” Her voice was quiet and meek, nothing like the performance she had given earlier. Sam could tell from her own expression his face told her everything she needed to know. 

“You know what’s happening here.” Sam said, voice dangerously quiet. Even though she was being compliant so far, he couldn’t shake the urge to reach out and shake her, force her to spill all of the information as quickly as she possibly could. Instead he continued talking, shoulders tight, fists balled at his sides. “It’s your brother doing this, isn’t it?” 

Ellie’s tight face broke as a tear slipped down her left cheek. She wiped it away with a knuckle and nodded. “I hadn’t been to my parent’s house since…since they died. When Ty was alive, I lived with him, in his apartment. He used the tool shed on their property as an art studio, but I couldn’t—“ She swallowed thickly. “I couldn’t go back there, to that place.”

“But then after Ty died, and….and my aunt sent me there to loot it…” She laughed angrily. “When she sent me there, I found one of Ty’s early works, the painting he did when he first converted that shed on his sixteenth birthday.” Tears were coming constantly now, so frequent she had given up wiping them away. They slipped down her face and soaked into the collar of her shirt. “I didn’t know any of his work had survived the fire. And when I touched it, Ty….he came to me. My brother came back to me.” 

_This is all good information,_ Sam thought, trying to cool his own impatience. _Just let her finish. Just a few more minutes._ His arms were shaking with emotion. He was trying to hold it together, and slowly failing. Ellie continued, unaware of Sam’s own internal battle. “My aunt…she found out about the painting. She knew that—that with Ty dead, it would sell for more, so she,” Ellie’s tone went from one of sadness to one of taut anger, “she went there one night and took it. Sold it to a buyer before I even knew she had done it. But I had to have it back, so….I made a copy. I broke into their house and I stole Ty’s painting back. I couldn’t let anyone else have it….it was the last thing of my brother’s I had.” She coughed through her tears and then quieted, staring distantly at Sam’s chest, which had remained dangerously still. 

“Your paintings are causing the fires.” Sam said icily. Ellie looked him in the eye, trembling.

“Not all of them. Only the copies. Only the ones like Ty’s.” She dropped her crossed arms, shoulders hanging forward in defeat. “I think—I think my brother’s using them to kill people. To punish people. Punish siblings, like—like my aunt.” 

“Where is your aunt?” Sam asked quietly. 

“Where’s your brother?” Ellie responded simply. “She was in the house where the third fire took place, the one that reported no missing people. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the owners she had broken in to steal from them….even screwed up as she is, she’s the last family I have.” Ellie’s face warped. “Had.” 

“My brother…your aunt…they might not be dead.” _God, I hope that’s true,_ Sam thought as he said it. “I think they were taken. And we need to find out where.” 

“My parents’ house.” Ellie offered immediately. “That’s where I put the painting, after I…stole it back. Ty had dreams of fixing it up when he had the money, moving us back in there together.” Ellie teared up. “He said he didn’t need anyone else if he had me.” 

A weird feeling rolled through Sam’s stomach at that last line. Something about it felt…off. And something else felt familiar. Sam’s worry for Dean knocked the thought loose. “To the house then. Get in.” Sam knew that normally, it was nothing but dangerous to bring someone so close to the vengeful spirit along, but he wanted insurance. She knew the spirit, knew the house, and knew where she had hidden the painting…yeah, he needed her. Dean might yell at him later, but in order for that to happen he had to get him back first. And that was exactly what he was going to do.


	17. Chapter 17

Ellie took a ragged breath as they turned into the overgrown driveway; weeds stuck their hands through the net of cracks in the pavement, making for a rough ride up the lane. A thick row of trees blocked their view on either side of the narrow path. Sam fought the urge to speed up. He needed to pace himself, take his time and be careful. If he barged in without a plan all he would succeed in doing is killing himself and likely the girl too. And Dean. Sam was still holding his thoughts in place, trying to keep them from imagining the things that could have happened to his missing brother. 

The car finally rounded the last curve in the lane, revealing a three story house with a sagging Victorian style porch. The paint was faded and peeling and the Impala’s headlights illuminated broken beer bottles and tattered paper scraps, all that remained of a party that had taken place here long ago. Sam pulled right up to the front steps and parked the car as Ellie took another gasp of air. If it weren’t for his concern for his brother, he would have felt bad for her. Seeing her old family home like this had to hurt. Sam remembered how much seeing their old house in Lawrence had bothered Dean. This was probably the same for her. 

A flickering light from a crack in the basement’s foundation caught Sam’s eye; there was only enough room for a seam of yellow warmth to creep through. Then a shadow stepped in front of the lantern. “Dean,” Sam breathed, hope climbing into his throat as he quietly opened the car door and made his way around the house. Ellie, unsure what else to do, followed behind. He turned to her. “Is there a way into the basement from the outside?” 

Ellie shook her head. “Only a tiny window; you wouldn’t be able to fit through.” 

Sam nodded, pointing with his shotgun. Even if he couldn’t climb through, if he could see in there, see if he could find his brother, it was worth checking it out first. “Show me where.” 

Ellie took the lead, crouching with expert technique as she slunk forward, waving Sam around the corner when she saw the coast was clear. “It’s here,” she said, pointing to a blacked-out glass pane no bigger than his forearm. Sam pressed his palm against the glass, letting out a frustrated sigh when it didn’t budge. He whispered a quick apology to Ellie as he brought the butt of his gun to the glass, smashing it in one smooth motion. She gasped but didn’t respond. 

“Who’s there?” A rough female voice asked. It sounded like years of booze and cigarettes had taken their toll on its owner. 

“Auntie Di!” Ellie exclaimed, letting out a gasping laugh as her Aunt’s dark face approached the glass; she carried an oil lantern, the source of the light he had seen in the basement. 

“Ellie?” The woman asked, disbelieving. She let out a sigh. “I didn’t think anyone would come…please, you have to get us out of here!” 

Sam could barely contain his wobbling voice. “Dean? Dean, Are you there?” 

Diane turned her gaze to her niece’s companion, a shrewd look flickering behind her fear. “Your brother’s here. He said you’d be coming to get us, but I didn’t believe him.” She took a deep breath, glancing back to her left at something Sam couldn’t see. Then her eyes flicked back up to meet Sam’s. “He’s out cold. Got knocked around by her monster of a brother trying to keep me out of harm’s way. Damn can that boy take a beating.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“But he’s alive?” Sam asked desperately. Diane nodded sharply. Sam felt his breath rush from his lungs before he even knew he had let it go. After taking a second to recompose himself, he formulated a plan. 

Sam turned to Ellie, determination thick in his voice. “Which door is closest to the basement entrance?” Ellie tore her eyes from her Aunt’s face and nodded at the back door which stood about 10 feet from them on the same wall. Sam gave a brusque nod and gestured with his gun. “You lead. I’ve got your back.” She hesitated, glancing at Sam with unsure eyes. He tried to flash her a reassuring smile. “I promise. We’re going to go in, grab them, and run. It’ll be easy.” Her expression showed she didn’t fully believe him. But she swallowed and nodded. Sam turned to Diane, passing his container of salt through the small window. “Tyrese seems to be targeting you and my brother; grab him, make a circle with this, and get in it. It should keep you two safe.”

“Be careful, El…” Diane whispered after them. Sam gave the older woman a nod before following behind her niece. 

Ellie let out a soft sigh as she pulled a key from a chain around her neck, slipping it into the door and turning it gently. The lock let out a dry click. Sam pressed his palm against the wood behind her head, indicating with his eyes that she should make her way into the room to her immediate left. She did, sidestepping the smattering of dusty glass shards with swift skill. “You do this a lot?” He asked in a faint whispered, secretly impressed at her talent. She just threw him a look that said _of course I do, you dumbass._

Just knowing Dean was alive gave Sam a high, one he had never been able to explain fully. His face and hands prickled warmly. But Sam wasn’t about to relax. Not until Dean was out of this house, safe and happy and awake. Ellie pointed to a door down the hallway, hand quivering slightly. The house remained quiet save the creaking of a distant shutter in the wind. Sam flipped on his EMF detector and watched as the hands went haywire. He closed his eyes tightly and took a breath. “It’s going to be a sprint, Ellie. Be ready.” Sam couldn’t tell if she nodded or shivered, but her eyes said she understood. “On my cue,” he breathed, eyeing the adjacent rooms for any sign of movement. 

“Now!” He shouted, spinning around the corner and aiming his shotgun into the dark. Ellie darted in front of him and sprinted for the door. Her fingers closed around the knob and she twisted it sharply. It didn’t budge. Sam made his way to her side, throwing his weight against the door in an attempt to help. The old wood shuddered and screamed, but remained intact. Ellie opened her mouth to speak but froze, staring instead down the hallway behind Sam. He whipped around and fired without pause, hitting the blurred figure before his eyes had actually fixed on it. 

“What did you do?” Ellie shrieked, looking at the spot where Tyrese had just stood. 

“I just stunned him,” Sam said, eyes still searching the dark for his form, sure it was only a matter of time before he returned. “But Ellie…” Sam took a breath, not sure how best to continue. “Your brother, Ty, he’s…well, he’s already dead.” 

“I know that, genius,” Ellie said, breath quivering. Sam shut his eyes tightly, letting out a deep sigh. 

“Ellie.” He started. She just huffed at him, but it was enough of an invitation that Sam continued. “That painting of his…it’s tying him to this house. To you. It’s allowing him to hurt those innocent people.” He swallowed, turning to look her in the eye as he spoke. “In order to keep people safe…we’ll need to burn it.” She let out a sob, hand fluttering to her mouth. 

“But it’s all I have left.” Was all she managed. Sam could feel the pain of loss radiating off of her. He didn’t’ know how to comfort her; after all, he was going to destroy the last thing she had of her brother. He simply held her gaze and waited. A series of emotions rolled across her face, a sea of conflicting feelings that threatened to swallow her. But finally she nodded, gesturing to the stairs further up and to the left. “It’s upstairs. In the old master bedroom.” With that she turned and headed for the stairs.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam took the lead this time, pressing his back to the far wall as he ascended the stairs. Ellie followed behind, glancing behind them occasionally to make sure the coast was clear. The hairs on Sam's arm stood on end; he didn't need the EMF to know that Tyrese's spirit wasn't that far behind. Still, given the fact they were headed to destroy the last object that tied him to this place, it was surprising that they weren't meeting heavier resistance. A bad feeling rose in the corner of Sam's mind, but as there was nothing he could do about it, he chose to focus fully on their current task until something else developed. 

After peering around the corner to make sure there were no surprises, he set off down the hall. They were no longer trying to be quiet, but Sam knew to be careful, even if it seemed like the coast was clear. Ellie hovered her hand over Sam’s shoulder, speaking softly. "Third room on the right." Sam nodded and led the way, passing through the doorway gun barrel first. 

A dark shadow flew at them from the left; Sam rounded and shot, striking it squarely in the chest. It let out a gasp and dissipated. He waved Ellie inside the room behind him. "Grab that painting, throw it on the mattress, and burn it! Use this.” He passed her the duffel bag on his shoulder. Her hands hovered briefly before she grabbed the canvas strap. Sam eyed her momentarily, making sure she wasn't having second thoughts. But she diligently grabbed the frame and flung it on the bed, spraying it with lighter fluid and striking a match. The match never made it onto the canvas, however.

Sam watched as an invisible force smashed Ellie into the opposite wall. She let out a gasp of surprise and pain and Sam spun to see Tyrese holding her by the throat, teeth flashing in an unnatural snarl. Sam swung the gun around but found it tumbling from his fingers as he was forced to the floor by a hot wave of air. "You stay there," Tyrese growled with surprising clarity. If Sam weren't about to die, he would almost be fascinated at the rules this ghost seemed to be bending. 

"You were gonna kill me," Tyrese said. Ellie shook her head, choking on his tight grip. Her hands flailed at her throat, passing effortlessly through his corporeal grip. Sam let out a gasp of air, pushing against the floor and the force above him to no avail. He had to find some way to get Tyrese’s attention off of one or the other of them so that they could finish the job, and get Dean and her aunt to safety. 

“I told her to,” Sam said in as smug of a voice as he could manage given his compromising position. He needed to make it sound convincing. “I told her about all those awful things you were doing, those people you murdered…” He sighed and let out a sarcastic laugh. “It’s not like you gave her a choice, ‘Ty.’”

“You shut up!” Tyrese shouted, turning to look at Sam who felt the invisible weight holding him increase nearly tenfold. He let out a strained grunt as he fought to keep air in his lungs. “Only she gets to call me that,” he growled as an afterthought. This shift in his attention was enough to loosen his grip on her throat, and she let out a gasping cough. 

“I’m sorry, Ty…” She whispered hoarsely, hand on her neck as she doubled over to catch her breath. A tear slipped quietly down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.” Sam made a face to warn her not to engage. He sucked in another breath with great effort and tossed his head to point at the unmanned matchbook by the foot of the bed. But she didn’t listen, and continued quietly. 

“I know why you’re doing this,” She said, voice trembling in sync with her shoulders. She bent her knees and crouched by the wall, looking up pleadingly at her dead brother. He turned and faced her coldly, stepping back. 

“Then tell me,” he said, watching her quietly. Sam felt the pressure lift slightly and held perfectly still, hoping that the more they talked the less Tyrese would think about Sam. The matchbook was only 4 feet away. 

Ellie took a shuddering breath, eyes wide in pain. Sam watched her, brow wrinkled in confusion. It seemed she had still been hiding something, even after everything she had told him. “I know you loved me, Ty.” She swallowed, “And not just as a sister. It was more than that... And I knew that we couldn’t.” 

“And one night, I got really, really drunk. Told my friends about your plan to fix up the house for us. And James, well, he—“

“Loved you,” Tyrese finished, voice still deep and threatening. Ellie flinched, closing her eyes momentarily before continuing. 

“Yes. And he made up lies. He said terrible things about you. And I-I” She shut her eyes again. 

“You…” Tyrese prompted her to finish. Sam felt the weight lift further. A little more and he might be able to make it those four feet. The story unfolding in front of him shocked him, but more important than that was the thought of Dean, locked in that basement, probably beaten to hell and in need of a damn doctor. And Sam was going to get him there. He was going to save him. So something like this couldn’t distract him. 

“I didn’t stop him. I was afraid, and—“

“That’s no excuse! You know what they did to me! You knew immediately after and you told NO ONE. NO ONE EVEN KNEW I’D BEEN MURDERED! You promised that you’d always have my back, and you LIED!” The room rumbled with his fury, and Ellie cowered behind her hands with a frightened sob. His expression didn’t soften—he was too far gone to have any sympathy for his little sister who had likely been threatened into silence. Sam bit his lip, wanting to interject, very aware that she was walking into a very dangerous area of conversation. But if he said something, he’d draw attention back to himself, which would prevent him from moving entirely. Conflicted, he kept quiet. 

Ellie snuffled quietly behind her hands, head bowed to hide her face from her brother. He watched her with a thick silence, waves of energy radiating through the room with his anger. Then the trembling in Ellie’s shoulders stilled, and Sam heard her take a deep breath. The urge to say something rolled in his stomach, but he held his tongue. 

Finally she raised her head, then stood, arms dropping to her sides. “What do I need to do? How can I convince you to let them go?” 

Tyrese laughed. “Let them go? I took them to punish you. Both of you,” he said, rounding on Sam who was just beginning to tense his muscles and move. Sam and Ellie both looked at him in confusion. Why did Tyrese believe Sam needed to be punished? 

“Why?” Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him. 

The weight didn’t return, but Sam wasn’t about to risk any sudden moves with eyes on him. Tyrese was dangerously still, gaze lowered to look Sam directly in the eye. “You’ve broken promises, just like my sister.” He spat the last word with disgust, though not for the reason Ellie seemed to think. Warmth flashed briefly in his gaze as he glanced at her. “You lied to your brother. And he knew it. That mark on your neck…it’s laughing at you. I can hear it from a mile away, laughing, taunting, spilling your secrets…your brother is lucky he’s an idiot.” Sam bit back his insult, knowing it would do no good. Tyrese had turned his focus onto Sam, crouching to bring his face inches from Sam’s. “You’re just like me,” he whispered mockingly. “And you, too, will burn for it.” He pressed his palm to Sam’s throat, increasing the pressure until Sam felt like his windpipe was about to snap. But Tyrese jerked his hand back, head turning rapidly to look behind him. Sam did the same, blurred eyes barely making out Ellie’s shaking figure, stark and black against a backdrop of flame as it erupted across the canvas. Tyrese let out a mournful shriek as he exploded in flame himself.  
The loving look in his eyes before they were swallowed by flame made Sam’s heartstrings twinge. But he didn’t take time to speculate on it, leaping up and grabbing Ellie by the arm to drag her from the quickly encroaching flames. 

“No!” She shouted, ripping herself out of his grip. She let out a shaky breath. “I want to go with him.” 

“Don’t be stupid!” Sam shouted, grabbing her more forcefully and heading for the door. Again she fought her way free and returned to her spot in the middle of the room. 

She laughed tearfully as Sam stood in the doorway, unsure whether he had time to try again before he had to leave in order to rescue Dean. She shook her head as he advanced for her again. “Save your brother. Leave my brother to me.” Sam grimaced, stomach rolling with that bad feeling that had been following him since Dean had vanished earlier that night. After one more look at the lonely girl in the burning room he turned and ran for the basement. 

“Dean!” He shouted hoarsely, still not fully recovered from his half-crushed windpipe. “Dean!” he charged to the basement door and ripped it open with little effort. Diane peered up from the bottom of the stairs and Sam could barely make out Dean’s leg, his combat boots unmistakable even in the dim lantern light. Sam could feel heat and light quickly rushing up behind him; he wasted no time charging down the stairs, scooping his brother up in his arms. “Move!” he shouted at Diane, who turned and fled for the door. Sam knew that if Dean were conscious he would have demanded Sam save his pride and drape him over his shoulder. Dean clearly didn’t want anyone to know his little brother could carry him “princess style” so effortlessly. But as he was out cold Sam didn’t stand on ceremony, instead cradling his brother in his arms as he took the stairs two at a time. The warmth of his brother’s body in his arms calmed Sam; this was more evidence than he had had in hours that his brother was alive. After making it outside, Sam quickly checked to make sure Dean was still breathing. He checked for a pulse and found it slow but steady. He then shoved his phone in Diane’s hands and turned back to the house. “Call 9-1-1; I’m going back for Ellie.” And Sam disappeared into the climbing flames.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, one more brief chapter and the first case is done! We've got a couple more, but they tie in more directly with the sigil and the boys' feelings, so they won't be dull! This story has gotten a lot longer than I initially planned but I have planned it to the end! Please be patient, I promise more is on the way!

The following minutes in the burning house were a chaotic blur. Sam remembered charging past a huge wall of flame that had already swallowed the stairs; he reached the foot of them and saw very quickly that there was no way to get back to the bedroom where Ellie stood trapped, probably suffocating on smoke as the heat ripped the flesh from her bones. But then he remembered a shadow appearing at the top of the stairs, and suddenly Ellie came crashing into his arms. The shadow flickered and faded as he scooped the unconscious girl off the floor and carried her out into the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles that now surrounded them. Dean was on a stretcher, being loaded into the nearest ambulance. Sam started toward him when EMTs surrounded, pulling the next to forgotten girl from his arms. Then they grabbed him, and Sam let out a shout as the adrenaline wore off and the raw patches of burned skin began to feel again. He nearly fainted, world spinning roughly before his eyes, but the sight of his brother kept him conscious. “Is he okay?” He managed as he staggered in place. He heard someone assure him there was nothing seriously wrong with him, that Sam looked much worse in comparison. The following relief put Sam under in seconds; no need to threaten him with sedatives this time. 

Sam came to in a stark white hospital bed, room devoid of all personality save the familiar face that sat in the chair opposite his bed. Diane stood quickly upon seeing him wake and approached him quietly. “When you wake up, you get your ass to my niece’s room, you hear?” She then shouted for the nurse and excused herself before the medical hoards descended. Half an hour later and Sam was released, having passed their mental acuity tests and giving a brief statement as to the events in the house. He hadn’t had time to review a story with Ellie’s aunt but hoped she had enough sense not to declare she had been kidnapped by a ghost. When the officer nodded and gave him a confident smile, he knew his “overturned lantern” story had stuck at least somewhat. 

Although Diane had requested his presence in Ellie’s hospital room, Sam had to find Dean first. A helpful and slightly awkward nurse helped him, muttering something about unfair genetics and stupid hospital code policies as she led Sam to the “hot guy’s room.” Dean lay motionless in the far left bed, IV drip protruding from his right arm. He had a cannula jutting from his nostrils, and heart monitors stuck to his chest. Sam relaxed however when he saw that his vitals were perfectly normal. But he was so still, so frighteningly still. Sam took a deep breath and approached the bed, snatching up the clipboard to find out what exactly was wrong with his brother. _head trauma,_ Sam read quickly. _Possible oxygen deprivation from smoke inhalation. Body maintains responsive to outside physical stimulus._ Sam let out a tight sigh. While it didn’t sound life threatening, it was clear Dean had not woken up since his arrival at the hospital. Sam pressed his eyes closed, mouth a thin line of stress. Had he gotten to Dean too late? He knew that enough air depravation could cause serious brain damage, even brain death. 

Sam immediately shook his head. He wasn’t going to think like that. It had only been…he checked his watch. It had only been 8 hours since they had emerged from that house. If more than a couple of days passed, he could panic then. Until then he would remain by his brother’s side. 

Sam reluctantly left the room and headed down the hall where he knew Ellie’s room was located. He knew something was up when he entered; Diane stood by the window, facing the street outside. A uniformed nurse sat diligently by the sleeping Ellie’s side, book in hand. Occasionally she would glance up at the monitors and check her vitals. There was a safety lock on the IV control panel. Ellie’s wrists were strapped to the bed. Her body sported almost no injury despite having been at the fire’s source for close to five minutes. But her left forearm sported a thick white bandage, one used for only the deepest of cuts, to staunch bleeding and hold stitches in place. 

“What happened?” Sam asked quietly, grabbing Diane’s attention. She turned and faced him slowly, a grim expression tight on her lips. 

“The nurses left her alone when she woke up.” She sighed heavily. “It was a mistake.” 

Sam’s gaze shifted from Diane to Ellie, who remained asleep. Diane continued. “After the knife, she went for the medicine drip. It’ll be a long trip through therapy, if we can keep her alive long enough.” Sam let out a sigh and closed his eyes. He knew she had wanted to die, but he would never have left her in there. Not after dragging her into danger in the first place. Not that that mattered now. Her current state was almost as bad as letting her die. 

“Call me when she wakes up. I want to talk to her.” He said, resting a hand on Diane’s shoulder. 

She just looked at him, face stony. “Sure,” she finally managed before returning to the window. It was clear he was not the only one who blamed himself for her current state. 

Sam turned with a sigh and returned to his brother’s room. 

Sam spent the next day and a half with Dean, whose condition didn’t change. He began getting restless, pacing the floor by the window instead of simply sitting and watching. Sometimes he thought he saw Dean shift; when that happened he flew to his side, gripping his hand or touching his shoulder in the hopes that something like that would draw him the rest of the way out. Doctors continued to tell him they saw promising brain activity, that it was likely he would wake up. But until he did Sam decided not to trust anyone. After all, there could be more going on here than just smoke inhalation and head trauma. A doctor was unlikely to diagnose the symptoms Sam feared. 

A nurse knocked lightly on the door frame, pulling Sam from a light doze. “Miss Barnes is awake. She’s asking for you.” Sam nodded and climbed quickly to his feet, giving Dean’s wrist a light squeeze. 

“I’ll be right back, Dean.” He didn’t want to leave him, but knew that talking with Ellie was important. 

She watched him with hollowed eyes from the bed as he entered. Her expression was a mixture of hatred for him, self-loathing, and unimaginable grief. Sam couldn’t even comprehend how much pain she had to be in, thinking she was the one who let her brother die the first time and had killed him the second. “Please leave, Auntie Di.” She said without emotion, not turning her gaze from Sam.

“I’ll watch her,” Sam promised, taking the nurse’s recently vacated chair. Diane eyed him sharply before nodding. 

“I’ll be right outside.” She placed a tender hand on Ellie’s head before removing herself from the room, closing the door gently behind her. 

“I told you to let me die,” Ellie said without a moment’s hesitation. 

“No, you told me to save my brother, and I did.” He looked her directly in the eye, leaning forward to keep her attention. “I came back in to save you.” 

“Yeah, real win there.” She said in a tone that could have been sarcasm if not for the monotonous undercurrent. 

“I wasn’t the one who carried you from the bedroom,” Sam added carefully, watching the girl closely for a reaction. “Your brother did.” 

A light appeared in her eyes, one illumined by pain and disbelief. “Liar.” 

Sam shook his head, picturing those brief minutes in the house. “He brought you to me; shielded you from the flames. How else to you explain your utter lack of burns?” 

“Is he…is he still there?” She asked, eyes beginning to brighten. 

Sam couldn’t give her false hope. “I don’t know.” He looked at her closely. “Spirits are often tied to the thing they held most dear before death. Sometimes it’s an object. Or a place. Or, on rare occasion,” He added quietly, “A person.” 

She took a moment to process. “You mean, me?” She asked quietly. 

“Maybe,” Sam said noncommittally. “But if that is the case, and you kill yourself…” He knew it was a stretch, but some part of him really believed it as he said it. 

“But what if he hurts other people?” 

“He seemed pretty rational speaking to you,” Sam said, remembering the clarity of his conversation. “If he is tied to you, I think he’ll probably listen.” He sighed briefly. “And if there’s another rash of fires, you have my number.” He lay a business card on her bedside table, patting her knee affectionately before standing. She just watched him quietly as he made his way to the door. 

“I heard, about your brother.” She said as he gripped the door handle. “I’m sorry.” 

“He’ll wake up,” Sam said quickly, hiding the tremor in his voice. “He’ll wake up.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's awake! Thank goodness. Now on to the next case!

Dean let out a rough groan as the world came crashing down on him. He remembered just moments before being swaddled in peaceful silence; now running footsteps, crying children, and some pissy woman’s voice on an intercom flooded his ears. His eyelids were heavy but with great effort he lifted them, taking in a blindingly white room that stood empty save his bed and the plethora of machines that surrounded him. He was alone, and that thought scared the shit out of him. “Sam?” He managed, voice gruff from lack of water and fire smoke. He remembered the first fire, the scalding hand on his shoulder, and then waking up in that stupid basement with the stupidly sturdy door. He hadn’t seen Sam make it out of the house, and he hadn’t seen Sam in the basement…his stomach dropped. “Sam?!” He pitched his voice even louder, panic quickly growing. A nurse came in quickly, shouting something to someone down the hall. Then two more came in, talking to him softly, trying to soothe him. He fought to sit up. “Where’s Sam? Where’s my brother?” His heart felt like it would leap from his chest. 

“It’s alright sir, please, just remain calm!” The nurse tried, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. _Like hell,_ he thought, ripping the stupid plastic piece from his nose. He was reaching for the IV when a blessedly familiar voice washed over him. 

“Dean!” Sam’s deep voice echoed from the doorway. It rang with unspoken words of fear, uncertainty, and now relief. Dean wondered how long he’d been out. He turned his head to look at his brother but instead got a face-full of nurse tits. Usually he’d consider that a treat, but right now there were more pressing matters. He pushed her gently aside to get a clear view of Sam. 

“I’m okay, Dean,” the severely bandaged, burned, and limping figure said with relief, approaching the bed slowly and with quite a bit of effort. 

“Like hell you are,” Dean retorted, eyeing Sam with increased worry. He looked like he had just crawled out of Hell for a second time. 

“Your brother’s a hero,” the awkward nurse piped up as she pressed a stethoscope to his chest. “Pulled you and that lady from the fire, and then went back inside for the girl! Everyone was sure he wouldn’t make it. Then out he staggered! It was like an action movie,” she sighed dreamily. Dean cast her an uncomfortable glance before returning his anxious gaze to his brother. 

“You’re good to go, Mr. Waters.” The nurse said, unstrapping the IV from Dean’s arm. Dean disliked how the hospital gown fluttered around his bits as he sat up, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. He was only a little surprised to hear his current FBI cover name in the hospital, but figured Sam had done something to set it straight. Sam approached him, a tentative smile on his lips.

Dean looked Sam up and down and cursed himself for being out of commission for the main part of the case. Sam had taken enough beatings for two people and it was clear he was feeling it. Dean returned his gaze to Sam’s face and could see in his eyes the pain that usually only reared its head after a particularly nasty nightmare. It seems Sam still couldn’t decide between grief and relief. And Dean knew just how to remedy that. He stood quickly, forgetting for a moment that he was draped in a thin cotton sheet with strings on the back and nothing more, instead wrapping Sam in a tight hug. Sam let out a shaky breath and hugged him fiercely back. Dean tightened his grip further, fighting the urge to run a hand soothingly down the back of his brother’s head. Sam tried to break the hug first, tone playing at discomfort even though Dean knew that was nothing but posturing. But with no reason to continue the embrace, he reluctantly let go, returning his gaze to Sam’s face, which was eyeing him gratefully. 

Then Dean noticed the purple marks peeking out from underneath Sam’s V-neck shirt, the only place he wasn’t covered in burns and bandages. He waited until the tittering nurses (who had likely enjoyed the show) had returned to the hall. “Sam?” His voice was tighter now, concern and anger blending effortlessly as he eyed his brother. 

Sam sighed, knowing exactly what Dean was talking about. “I can’t show you here; I barely managed to convince the staff that it was a tattoo.” He looked his brother squarely in the face, open and honest. “I’ll tell you about it when we get back to the car.” Dean huffed, eyes analyzing Sam’s demeanor for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he sighed and nodded. 

“Fine. Now get out while I put my damn clothes back on.” 

Sam obliged and within minutes the brothers strolled out of the hospital. Dean didn’t even make a motion to get in the car, instead looking at Sam expectantly, gaze hard. Sam gave him a grimace-smile that made Dean’s stomach drop. It was bad. He could tell just from Sam’s behavior. Sam peeled off his flannel jacket and lifted the left sleeve of his shirt. Spidery purple marks encompassed his shoulder. He pulled the collar of his shirt down and revealed more spanning the upper part of his chest. He then reached up and pulled back one of his burn bandages. Even through the harsh burns and raw skin, Dean could see the marks spanning all across the left side of his neck, even working their way up the edge of his jaw. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean managed, voice thick with emotion. 

“I know.” Sam replied, replacing the bandage on his neck. 

“No seriously, Sam, what the hell?” He braced his palms on the top of the Impala, steadying himself. Finally he returned his gaze to Sam, pointing at the newly replaced bandage. “That piece of shit thing on your neck grew THAT MUCH in just ONE NIGHT?” He fought to lower his voice. It wasn’t Sam’s fault the mark had grown, that the little bit of security Dean thought he had by keeping his brother out of the bunker was gone. Dean returned his gaze to Sam, nearly drowning in his concern for his little brother.  
“Do you know what’s causing it now? Something had to trigger it.” He closed his eyes, nearly shouting at Sam. “We have to figure this out, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, voice surprisingly steady, “I think I have.” Dean glared at him with a silent question. Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Dean, I…I think it’s you.” 

“What…?” Dean barely managed, voice raw with pain. “What do you mean?” He steeled himself, hands still on the Impala’s hood. 

“I think you’re the trigger, Dean. Or something to do with you. Every time I touch you, it grows. I didn’t even notice it in the fire. But it wasn’t there when I went into that house. It was when I carried you out of it.” 

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was dangerously low. “Sam, you’re going home. Now.” 

Sam snorted. “Like hell; I’m not letting you hunt alone.”

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice cracked. “Being around me could kill you.” 

“Being without me almost killed you.” Sam retorted, eyes firm. “We’ll keep hunting. We’ll just be careful. We can see if Cass can come along, if you like. But there’s no way I’m leaving you alone. Not after…” His bit off his sentence, lowering his eyes to the ground. When he looked back up they glistened slightly, though Sam would never admit to it. “We stick together.” He finished sharply. 

Dean wanted to argue, but saw that he had little to no chance of winning. And he wasn’t cruel enough to ditch Sam after this last case. It was clear Sam had been terribly shaken by Dean’s disappearance. After a moment of tight silence, he finally sighed. “We’re calling Cass,” Dean warned, pulling his phone from his pocket. Sam agreed without hesitation. Dean opened the car door and climbed in, phone to his ear. “Let’s go.” Sam climbed in the passenger’s seat and slammed the door. Then the Impala roared to life, speeding off down the road.


	21. Chapter 21

“Dean, seriously? This is getting ridiculous,” Sam muttered from the back of the Impala, hands resting on the top of the passenger seat. He rolled his eyes when he noticed Dean watching him out of his periphery, like he was afraid Sam was going to thoughtlessly reach out and grab him. In reality the glances did nothing but goad him on. But Sam had learned the hard way an hour ago that Dean meant business; thinking he was being funny, he had reached over to grab Dean’s shoulder while casually conversing. Dean had hit the brakes so suddenly Sam’s head had almost slammed into the dashboard. That was when Dean forced him to switch places with their angelic companion, exiling his brother to the backseat. 

“There’s not even enough room to straighten my legs,” he complained. Dean almost smiled at that. When Sam whined like this he always remembered their childhood, and the selfish kid he had looked out for all these years. But then the image of that mark on Sam’s neck would pop back into his head, and any amusement he might have felt died with it. 

They had picked up Castiel in Lebanon, where they had regrouped briefly before heading out on another case. The angel had insisted on examining Sam before proceeding any further, quickly healing his injuries and forcing him to completely remove his top so he could examine the mark as a whole. Sam had reluctantly obliged, awkwardness and discomfort evident in his lowered gaze and fidgety demeanor. 

“I need to take a closer look,” Cass said as he grabbed Sam by the neck and pulled him closer. Sam’s eyes widened in panic as Dean sniggered, leaning casually against the car. About time Sam was on the receiving end of that awkward angel space bubble crap instead of him. The smirk fell off when both Cass’s hand and Sam’s mark began glowing a hot purple. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, coming closer in case he had to rip the two of them apart. 

“Checking on the soul,” Castiel said matter-of-factly.

“For what?” Dean’s tone was crisp. Cass ignored it. 

“For any signs of infection.” He said. Sam was still stooped awkwardly, but waved Dean off when he saw the concern blossoming in his eyes. 

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt, Dean.” But Dean disregarded him, instead turning his attention to the angel. Sam sighed; now that Dean knew he had lied about not knowing the trigger, he didn’t trust anything he said, even when what he said was the truth. 

“Well?” The older brother demanded. 

Castiel removed his hand and handed Sam his shirt back, who shrugged it back on gratefully. “It’s clean. Whoever put this spell on you, she clearly mastered soul-casting. The cut is clean, almost surgical. I’ve never seen a soul used so….methodically before.” Dean’s heavy gaze showed he wasn’t impressed. 

“Did you know?” Dean asked Sam angrily. Sam blinked at him dumbly, not understanding the question. Dean pressed further, expression stormy. “Did you know it was possible that soul could be infected too?” His face suggested he already thought he knew the answer. Sam let out an exasperated laugh, shaking his head. 

“Of course I didn’t know, Dean! How could I? You read everything I did back at the bunker.” He shook his head harder, frustration growing at his brother’s semi-permanent scowl. “And Cass just said it was fine, so you can stop freaking out anytime.” He gestured loosely with both hands, and when Dean took an obvious step back Sam bit back the urge to punch him in the face. With an irritated snort he turned and stalked back to the car, using his last bit of self-control trying not to slam the Impala door. 

Dean sighed, looking pointedly at Castiel before following after his brother. The angel didn’t feel badly for hiding this information from them. This way they had found out about it just as they learned it was no longer a concern. It was better to worry them for all of thirty seconds instead of letting it simmer in Dean’s brain for weeks. He was thankful he had been right, however. Sam had had his fill of damaged souls ten times over. Castiel glanced briefly at his hand before following the brothers back to the car. Something about the mark felt…well, he didn’t know how to put it. Energized? It hadn’t been activated, he was sure, but something was moving, even as Sam sat in that passenger seat. And that worried him. He made a note to question Sam once his brother was out of earshot. With Dean there he had no chance of getting anything helpful; Sam was too busy trying to convince him not to worry. 

Sam sighed heavily as he twisted sideways in the back, propping his long legs up on the leather seat. In a few moments the lull of the engine and the soft curves of the road pulled Sam into a deep sleep. Dean glanced at him in the rearview mirror from time to time, glad that at least for now, Sam seemed stable. If not for the fact that the mark had spread so rapidly, Dean wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong. But the tendrils of purple that stretched across his vision set his teeth on edge. Something was clearly happening, and he didn’t even know what it was, much less how to stop it. 

The confidence with which Sam had told him he had been causing the mark to spread had made Dean realize Sam had likely known about it since that first night in the bunker. Dean had _known_ something was weird when Sam walked away that night. But he had trusted his little brother to tell him, and once again Sam had been too concerned about Dean to consider the consequences of hiding that information from him. Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. How many times had he touched Sam without thinking? Rested his hand on his shoulder, bumped his fingers when handing him a beer, shaken him awake while he was sleeping…the list was endless. How long had he been making the mark worse? How long had he been harming his precious little brother?

Now Dean was painfully aware of how often he subconsciously reached for his brother. Even in the last day, he had already tried to help a limping Sam down the stairs, almost clapped Sam on the knee while teasing him about Cass’s examination, and now felt the urge to catch the sleeping Sam whose head was slowly slipping forward into that uncomfortable position he always favored while resting in the car. Instead he let him fall, hoping that if he got a crick in his neck Cass could just heal it away. Dean let out a heavy sigh and returned his eyes to the road. He caught a road sign – just 150 miles left to Salt Lake City. Just a couple hours until he could get away from his brother for just a bit. Just to a bar to get a drink. Even Sam couldn’t begrudge him that. Dealing with all this stress sober was overrated.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a brief headsup for my returning readers: I'm going to try and get this side story arc finished, but I'm leaving on vacation for a couple weeks in just a few days so if there's a delay in posting, don't fret! I'll be back and recharged before the end of July!

The article Sam had found regarding their current case was really vague, and Dean had been skeptical from the get-go as the article had come from one of those weird plant-lover magazines that set his teeth on edge. It was like a vegan bakery in paper form. Just not natural. Why Sam had even been reading garbage like that he had no clue. Dean hadn’t argued though; chasing doubtful cases would keep Sam out of the line of fire. If he couldn’t make Sam stay home and out of danger, the least he could do was agree to pursue even the weakest sounding leads. 

The lead in question had been very real, though, and very quickly Sam, Dean, and Cass had found themselves neck-deep in trouble—they had walked into the nest unawares; in fact, they had checked into it their first night in town. Who knew vamps were smart enough to prey on cash-basis motel visitors and roadside drifters, and take their money while they were at it? 

Fourteen headless corpses and a hot shower later, they were back on the road. Dean hadn’t even had time to hit up a local bar. He was still painfully sober and now exhausted to boot. They drove for a few hours to put some distance between them and the horror house of a motel they had left behind. Sam, who had always been good about sleeping anywhere was curled up in the backseat, snoring softly. Castiel sat straight-faced, perfectly content to silently observe everything around him. 

“So what else did you learn from that little examination of yours earlier?” Dean asked, low voice cutting through the silence that had filled the car. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Castiel responded, eyeing him with that look of confusion that rarely left his face. 

“What I mean,” Dean said, emphasizing the last word with a sharp glance at his friend, “is that you seemed aware of the possibility of an infection already. And if you’re hiding anything else from me, I swear to God that I’ll—” His voice was so tight it nearly stuck in his throat. 

“I’m not hiding anything, Dean.” Castiel said, watching Dean with renewed concern. While he had been focusing on Sam, he hadn’t realized just how stressed the older brother had become. Even now, with no threat of imposing danger, Dean clutched at the steering wheel with white knuckles, casting frequent glances at the sleeping Sam. “How are you doing?” He asked even though he knew Dean’s answers were rarely truthful in this department. 

“Me? I’m great,” Dean offered with bravado, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror for the twentieth time in the last hour. Sam had shifted slightly, letting out a gentle breath as he settled back into a comfortable sleep. “I’m more concerned about him.” His unspoken words rang clearly in his gaze: whatever was happening to his brother, Dean clearly blamed himself. And no rational arguments from Castiel would change that thought. No, the only one who had half a chance of reaching past that wall of Winchester stubbornness was still asleep in the back seat. 

Cass tried twice more to get a clearer response from Dean to no avail; the older brother managed both times to flip the conversation back to his brother. Eventually he settled back into silence with a sigh, watching the world slide by behind the glossy windows of the car. 

Sam silently watched his brother through half-shut eyes. The brief conversation in the front seat had pulled him from a light sleep, but instead of sitting up and joining in Sam had hoped to hear from his brother’s lips just how he was holding up. Castiel was not the only one who had noticed the tautness in Dean’s shoulders, the pain that hovered just behind his hardened green eyes. Dean was drowning in his thoughts, and it killed Sam that he couldn’t just reach out and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder like he had always done. He knew that the sigil on his neck terrified Dean. Hell, Sam would be worried too if Dean hadn’t already worried enough for all of them. Sam worrying about it too wouldn’t do them any favors; as long as he was still standing, he didn’t see reason to complain. Until he had to face it, the future and the “what ifs” could stay as far away from him as they wanted. He sighed and closed his eyes, shifting away from the rearview mirror to avoid that plummeting feeling that struck his gut every time he caught that familiar flash of green gazing back at him. 

Four hours later and Dean had had enough. He took the next exit and pulled up outside a greasy motel nearly identical to the one they had just left. It even had the same sagging roof above the reception desk. He told Cass gruffly to wake Sam before stepping out of the car, opening the trunk and hauling all their junk inside. He took the bed nearest the door and lay down without ceremony, falling asleep almost immediately. 

When he woke the next morning he found the motel room empty. His initial panic subsided when he found a note on the bed—“gone to get breakfast. Took Cass with me. Be back soon.” Dean stretched with a heavy sigh and sank back against the musty covers, trying to will himself back to sleep. But images of Sam’s mark, of finding Sam dead and himself alone in the world again kept his eyes from lingering shut. He wondered if these dreams of his would ever stop. Would he and Sam ever be safe enough to set them aside? He was doubtful.

Noting with some regret that it was too early to hit up a bar, Dean settled in the stained linoleum chair by the window, snatching Sam’s laptop from the seat opposite him. As long as he had the room to himself, he might was well look for another doubtful case. Hopefully the next one would be properly bogus so he could let Sam and Cass chase ghosts while he chased the bottom of a glass in some dingy hole nearby. At least then his mind would quiet somewhat; with enough shots and maybe a quick hookup he could achieve that dreamless sleep he had been missing for weeks. 

A search title caught his eye, and Dean smiled in spite of himself. _Beauty Queen named Michigan’s First “Serial Widow” – Foul Play at Work?_ The title itself was nothing more than clickbait, but something about it intrigued him. Dean slid his mouse over the link and clicked.


	23. Chapter 23

Alarm bells went off in Sam’s head the moment he and Castiel rounded the motel corner. Caught by surprise, Sam froze, turning in a slow circle to figure out just what had set him off. And then he realized: the Impala was gone. 

“Sam?” Cass asked as his companion broke into a jog, heading straight for the motel room door.

Sam didn’t respond, pulling the room key from his pocket with clumsy fingers and fighting to fit it into the rickety lock. The door opened with a rattle and a groan, revealing a dark room and two empty queen sized beds. “Dean’s gone,” he breathed, panic flaring in his chest. He fought to swallow it down, reminding himself that the car was also gone, which meant it was likely Dean had just stepped out on his own for a bit. Well, or would have been, if not for the fact that all of Dean’s belongings were missing, and his duffel was gone. Sam’s laptop sat humming on a nearby chair, the heat from the motor burning against the fake leather and filling the room with the smell of burning plastic. He snatched it up and examined the screen; his stomach plummeted. Their breakfast lay forgotten on the doorstep.

“I think he—he found a case,” Sam managed, sinking into the chair, laptop still in his hands. He had to stop for a moment and swallow. Something dark was trying to claw its way out of his gut, something Sam hadn’t tasted in a very long time. He stared fuzzily at the picture on the screen, of the cute girl with a sad smile plastered on her lips for the camera. She was beautiful, exactly Dean’s type, and based on the bit of information Sam had gleaned from the article, likely targeted by something supernatural. _Dean left me,_ Sam heard himself think through a rising fog, _Dean left me behind for some pretty blonde._

Suddenly a sharp pair of blue eyes appeared inches from Sam’s own, and with immeasurable effort Sam dragged himself from the flooding thrum of blood in his ears and focused on the angel. Castiel wore a look of intense concern, more emotion than usually graced his friend’s face, even when their lives were on the line. “Sam, can you hear me?” His voice sounded distant, tinny, like Sam was watching him from an old television set. He thought he managed a nod. A faint clatter drew his attention to the floor, where he found his laptop laying messily on its side. The world was splintering apart, leaving Sam behind. “Sam?” the angel tried again, hand bracing Sam’s shoulder to keep him upright. 

“We need to find him,” Sam slurred, trying to fight his way to his feet. Castiel let him stand, watching him as faint notes of human panic fluttered in his vessel’s chest. Something in Sam had broken; he had watched it happen as the absence of his brother had swallowed his friend whole. There was now a darkness radiating from Sam, strong enough that he could still feel it even though he had removed his hand from Sam’s shoulder. Then, with a sharp grunt of pain, Sam clutched at his neck and crashed to the floor. Breathing harshly through his teeth, he jerked his shirt collar away from his throat. Where faint purple marks had once stood, deep black now blossomed, swallowing the lines and the skin beneath in a rapidly expanding shadow. 

Cass ripped Sam’s hands away from his neck, placing his own over the mark and sending a desperate wave of healing heat through it. His grace rebounded from an invisible wall, shoving itself back inside his arm with a force that nearly knocked him over. “Sam?” He tried, watching the figure shivering and panting on the floor.

“I’m okay,” he breathed, words clearer now than they had been since they had entered the motel room. Sam swallowed roughly, still gasping at the sharp pain that had flooded his left side. A painful throb every few seconds was all that remained of the previous agony. He kept his eyes on the angel who crouched over him now, hands hovering in the air like he was afraid to touch him. “What the hell just happened?” He asked the bright sapphire eyes staring widely back at him. 

“Your mark,” Cass said slowly, fearing his words would trigger another attack, “turned black.” The angel shook his head slowly, taking in the deep shadow now covering his friend’s skin. 

Sam pressed a hand to his neck. “Yeah, it reacted to—” Pain flared again, preventing Sam from finishing. “You need to go help Dean.” He finally said, staring at his laptop on the floor.

“I don’t think leaving you is a good idea,” Cass argued, still poised like he expected Sam to seize at any moment. 

Sam huffed in annoyance—or pain?—he couldn’t tell. “I’m not going anywhere, Cass. That much is clear. Just—get Dean. Tell him what happened. He’ll come back.” Sam didn’t sound confident, and felt even less so. But he had to hope. There had to be some reason why Dean had left without warning. Even when Sam had been at his worst, Dean had always stuck by him. This wasn’t like him. Dean wouldn’t do this. There had to be something else going on. Pain fluttered through the mark again, and Sam swallowed it back with a sharp gasp. 

Castiel didn’t move. With all the control Sam didn’t know he still had, he climbed unaided to his feet and made his way to the nearest bed, sitting gingerly on the lumpy springs. “I’ll be fine. Please, just—please.” His moistened eyes were what finally spurred the angel into action. He made a quick lap around the room, scrawling all of the basic wards he could remember on surrounding walls and doors. Sam leaned back on the bed with a sigh. The angel paused at the door as he turned to go. 

“If anything changes, call me. Don’t try and deal with this on your own.” Sam nodded, throwing an exhausted thumbs-up into the air. Cass just sighed before locking the door securely behind him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, unrelated, but I had a weird experience at my work tonight! I figured as Supernatural fans, you guys would enjoy this. Tonight a woman came into the store looking to buy some furniture, and my first thought upon meeting her was that she looked just like Lisa from the show; same build, same hairstyle, even a similar outfit. She ended up deciding to put the furniture on hold, and so I went to get her information and found out her name actually WAS Lisa! And not just that, she started telling me how her son Ben had taken their truck which was why she couldn't pick the furniture up tonight. I had a hard time keeping a straight face after that. It was awesome!!

_What a damsel._

Sam’s eyes flew open. He wasn’t sure where the words had come from, whether it had been spoken aloud in the motel room, or whether it had just been his own thoughts popping out from his subconscious. Either way, he didn’t like them. Dean occasionally teased him with the word, referencing the many times he managed to get himself into hot water while working a case. Not that his brother didn’t do it just as frequently; Dean just made a point to do it intentionally, playing it off as some sort of ballsy hero act instead of what it was—just plain reckless. The word _damsel_ bothered Sam like no other word could. And the fact that it was now echoing through his own head pissed him off. 

Ignoring the throbbing in his neck and shoulder, Sam pulled himself into a sitting position, glaring at his reflection in the sliver of the grimy mirror he could see through the bathroom doorway. The person that stared back at him looked pathetic; skin that was normally sun-kissed stood pale and hollow, a blue tint evident even under the yellowed lights of the motel ceiling. Bags hovered darkly beneath his eyes, and even from ten feet away Sam could see red veins streaking across the whites of his eyes. Whatever this sigil was intended to do, it had definitely taken a toll on Sam’s health in this last round. He raised a timid hand to the black lines that covered his left side, fingers hovering above the skin in trepidation. Even now pain reverberated through the marks, so clearly it was as if he could feel the sigil itself as it shifted from purple to black. Steeling himself, he lightly pressed his fingers to the mark. Instantly a wave of blinding pain shot through him; he ripped his fingers away with a surprised gasp. While he hadn’t been sure what exactly to expect, _that_ definitely hadn’t been it. 

He carefully found his way to his feet, stumbling toward the opposite counter to grab his phone and check the time. And then check it again to make sure he had read it correctly. While laying quietly on the bed, over six hours had passed—six hours he couldn’t even remember. He didn’t remember sleeping, either. Only closing his eyes before that horrendous word had woken him again. Glancing at his phone a third time, he saw that Castiel had called him three times in the last hour. As he stared at the screen the phone began to ring a fourth time. Sam consciously passed the phone to his right hand before answering. 

“Cass. Any leads on Dean? You should be only a couple hours behind him.” Sam didn’t want to waste time answering questions about ‘how he felt.’ 

Not that the angel would allow him to avoid it. “Sam; I’m glad you picked up. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you.” There was a moment of awkward silence as Castiel waited for Sam to elaborate on his absence. When nothing was offered in response, he prompted his friend further. “How are you feeling?”

Sam sighed. No sense in lying, since Cass had witnessed the event first-hand. “I’m exhausted. I look like I have the world’s worst case of the flu. The sigil hurts like a bitch. And I have no clue where my brother is, why he left, and why the hell the damn thing acted up when Dean was nowhere near me.” Sam swallowed awkwardly. That last sentence sounded more like Sam was bitching than answering the question. Thankfully the angel was simply grateful his friend had answered truthfully. That hint of a whine assured him that the answer had been genuine. 

“I’ve got Dean leaving a local gas station a couple of hours from the town mentioned in the article we found. It sounds like he was on the phone with someone in town, as the attendant remembers him saying something like, ‘I’ll see you soon.’” Sam’s brow, already furrowed from the echoing pain in his left side deepened even further. He wanted to ask what kind of tone Dean had used, but knew that Castiel had no way to read those kind of subtle cues from eyewitness accounts, much less surveillance footage. 

“Call me as soon as you find him,” He said instead, swallowing the dark feeling roiling in his stomach again. He didn’t need to have another attack, especially while on the phone with Cass. But for someone so characteristically oblivious, Castiel picked up quickly on the change in Sam’s tone.

“Sam? Is it happening again?” Sam was touched at the depth of the concern that echoed through the line. 

“I’m fine, Cass. Nothing’s happening. I’ve got it under control.” He stopped himself from grunting in pain as heat flared close to his ear. Taking deep, steady breaths, he willed the pain to settle back into the throb he had become accustomed to. “Talk to you later.” 

Suddenly feeling terribly worn, Sam shuffled back to the bed and dropped his phone on the nightstand before sinking slowly onto the mattress, careful to lie on his right side. He closed his eyes with a sigh and felt sleep crawl up on him almost instantly, the ragged rattle of the AC fading to a faint hum. That is, until a sharp pounding on the door jolted him awake. Sam found his way to his feet, clumsier than he would like, and quickly crouched to avoid being seen from the curtained windows. He had a feeling that whoever was on the other side of that door wasn’t friendly. He glanced around the room for a suitable weapon, the residual fog in his head making it difficult to remember just what he had brought in. Then his eyes landed on the handle of an angel blade which stuck out of his duffel. 

He grabbed it with a shrug and tucked himself neatly behind the half-wall; while he and Dean hadn’t tried it on monsters besides angels and demons, he thought chances were good it could kill a hell of a lot more. And if he was right about what was outside, he needed all the help he could get. 

Sam closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. 

_Bring it on._


	25. Chapter 25

Dean lounged comfortably on the diner chair, one hand resting lazily on the back of his head as he looked fondly at his dinner companion. She returned the look, hands resting invitingly on the table that separated them. Blonde hair curled softly around her shoulders, catching the surrounding light and illuminating her heart-shaped face in an artificial halo. Two aquamarines framed by thick black lashes blinked slowly, taking in the handsome man across from her. She had known from the moment she had heard his voice on the phone that this encounter was meant to be. From the warm smile that kept flitting to his lips, it seemed he felt the same way. 

This was the scene Castiel had unwittingly stumbled upon, and for a moment he found himself unable to move. Dean’s brother lay halfway across the country, weakened and in serious pain, and here he sat making eyes at a girl in a diner as if he had no care in the world. 

There was definitely a case here. 

The angel approached the table slowly, realizing that with Dean in his current doe-eyed state it was unlikely he would be able to get through to him. As he neared their perch in the dark corner of the diner, green and blue eyes flicked up to meet his in perfect unison. 

“Cass,” Dean said, showing no signs of moving from his perch. His hand rested on the table now, softly gripping the unknown women’s fingers. Castiel squinted at him, trying to discern just what it was about him that seemed so off, besides his apparent lack of concern which had been devouring him just half a day earlier. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” His companion asked. She eyed the newcomer politely, wanting to make a good impression with Dean’s friends. Dean’s eyes flew to her face the moment she spoke. It took considerably more effort to return them to Castiel’s. 

“This is Katelyn,” he offered, eyes sliding back to her face as he spoke. “Or Kate, for short.” She giggled, enjoying some sort of inside joke the angel had no chance of understanding. “Kate, this is Cass. He’s an old friend.” The friendly words lacked any conviction, falling awkwardly stale. 

“Dean,” Cass called his name slowly, waiting for green eyes to shift back to him. The motion was sluggish, so unlike the lightning reflexes he was used to seeing. “Sam’s sick. He got worse.” He didn’t know how else to communicate his concerns to Dean without sharing too much with his new…friend. 

“So?” Dean said nonchalantly. “He’s a big boy; he can take care of himself.” Castiel blinked sharply. There was no concern there, no feeling at all. At least, not until his gaze settled on Katelyn again; then his eyes warmed immediately. 

The look he was giving her was one Cass had only seen him use on rare occasion, when all his walls came down and he felt truly safe. Then that look of tender adoration would slip momentarily across his features, and it was only ever directed at one person. And now that person was in serious pain, lying alone in a motel room, and Dean couldn’t care less. Something was clearly wrong with him, and this brief encounter had convinced Castiel that their new-found case likely centered on the girl across the table. 

He wondered if he could use his grace to figure out what she was. Witches, demigods, and the like often generated energetic frequencies that one could read with enough training. He offered her a faint smile and his right hand. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself. It’s nice to meet you.” She returned the smile and reached for him. 

Dean’s calloused fingers closed around the angel’s instead, and he started at the unexpected sensation. A dulled warning hovered in his eyes; apparently, even in his mind-addled state, he could still read Castiel like a book. Residual hunting instincts had kicked in, just in the wrong direction. “We really should be going,” the older Winchester said, picking up his jacket and wrapping it around Katelyn’s shoulders. She smiled gratefully, an eyebrow quirked in mild confusion as he gently guided her toward the door and out into the night. Castiel sighed. If this wasn’t a case, he didn’t know what was. He sent a silent apology to Sam for Dean’s behavior. He just hoped that Sam could hold out a little longer.


	26. Chapter 26

The door to the motel room shrieked as it erupted into a spray of splinters; the deadbolt spun frantically from the doorframe, coming to a stop right at Sam’s feet. Several pairs of stomping boots and a telltale snarl made his heart flutter briefly in his chest. 

“Just the giant, I see,” A coarse voice growled from the entrance; several rough laughs and an amused hiss echoed after it. Sam adjusted his grip on the angel blade, trying his best to keep still. He knew they knew where he was. Vampires could hear a heart beating from a mile away, after all. But the wall at his back gave him a false sense of security and a much realer sense of balance that he wasn’t quite ready to give up. Not yet. 

“I was really hoping to rip all three of you to shreds in one go.” The voice continued, moving steadily closer as its owner sidled into the room. Sam knew the voice, and the tanned, bearded face that went with it; this voice was the reason why he had thought the vampire motel hadn’t been a cut and dry case like Dean had convinced himself it was. This was the man that had checked them into the motel the night before. When they had counted the bodies, a tanned, silver-bearded face just like this one had been there, sure. But it hadn’t had the presence Sam now recognized from the creature at the door. Even through his half-wall, Sam could tell that this was an OLD vampire. And with a rough swallow, Sam realized that if he was wrong about the angel blade, he was very and truly dead. 

Hell, he might be dead anyway. But if he was going to die, he was going to do so doing what he knew best: fighting with hell at his heels.

Using what little bit of surprise he had left, Sam leapt from his corner and slammed the blade straight through the nearest vamp’s throat. For a moment everything stood still, all eyes on the blade and its wielder. Sam’s muscles quivered, still sore from the mark’s expansion hours before. The vampire had gone cross-eyed herself, her mouth in a crooked smile, confident that a blade through the neck wasn’t enough to down her. But this wasn’t an ordinary blade. Suddenly she was choking, fingers raising half-heartedly to her neck as yellow light flared through her eyes, nose, and mouth. Her body crumpled to the floor as Sam ripped the blade loose, stumbling slightly. 

He managed to stab another as he turned and quickly counted how many bodies he still needed to drop. Five remained, including the man that still stood calmly by the door, unperturbed even though two of his companions already lay dead on the floor. The rest had started forward, hissing fiercely with fangs bared. One on the left, an impressively tall man that nearly rivalled Sam’s height started forward, moving so fast it was difficult to track his blows. Sam sidestepped quickly, fist missing his stomach by inches. He swung the blade in tight arcs, lacking the control and the focus to predict exactly where his current adversary would be. Sam’s third swing was easily deflected, and a light shove from an attacker to his right sent him flying. He thought he heard something crunch as his shoulder pierced the drywall, but couldn’t tell if it had been the wall or his arm that had made the noise. Pain echoed throughout his body. The angel blade tumbled from his fingers, clattering loudly as it spun underneath the nightstand. 

He dove without pause, legs tangling awkwardly with the tall one as another landed on top of him, knee pressed sharply into his spine. He pushed up off the floor with his arms, swinging his elbow up and into her face. Teeth cut through the flannel of his shirtsleeve, carving a row of deep gashes across his forearm. He ignored it, using the extra leverage the blow had gained him to send the blade up through her skull. She crumpled on top of him, weight limiting his mobility as he struggled to squirm free. He slashed desperately at the two pairs of ankles he could reach, sending their owners hissing backwards as the blessed metal carved into their flesh. With a final roll Sam moved free of the corpse only to find himself surrounded on three sides. He fought to suck in enough air to remain standing; the mark pulsed angrily on his shoulder as he worked to maintain his footing. 

Exhaustion blurred his senses even further, and for an absurd moment he felt the urge to yawn. He faked a blow to the left before switching the blade to his left and stabbing backwards into the tall one’s chest. Light flared and he crumpled too. Sam let out an impressed huff in spite of himself; he needed to use angel blades more often. 

Sam’s hesitation was his downfall. In less than a second Sam found himself flattened to the bed, the two remaining vampires under the leader’s command using all of their weight to hold him still. One hissed in his ear, hot warm breath pressing against his skin. He shuddered in spite of himself, sensitive from the constant stimulation he was getting from the sigil, which had begun to send out larger waves of pain as vampire fingers pressed themselves to the lines. While he still clutched the angel blade, his arms were completely restrained, rendering it virtually useless. 

“Keep him still,” the booming voice said, a gleeful malice ringing through the simple command. His friends hissed in acknowledgement, white fangs gleaming in the dim light of the room. The bearded man sauntered over, black leather jacket rustling softly as he placed his knee firmly between Sam’s legs. Sam grunted in discomfort, breath hissing from his nostrils as the leader clamped his hand down over Sam’s jaw. Sam watched as the leader lowered his face to his throat, fangs brushing lightly against the skin. Sam felt warm liquid trickle from the spot and tried to squirm away. But he was no match for a vampire’s strength, let alone three. With a hard swallow, he closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to watch what came next. 

The tense moment was interrupted when a soft buzzing began on the nightstand. Straining his eyes, Sam saw that the source was his cellphone, which had miraculously survived the fight. Cass’s name lit up the screen, and with a satisfied smirk the leader answered the phone, flipping it to speaker and holding it up, hand still clamped over Sam’s mouth to prevent him from making any sound. 

“Sam,” The angel’s gruff voice said, turned thin and sharp by the low sound quality of his phone speakers, “I’ve found Dean. You were right about Michigan. He’s definitely in Central Lake, like you thought.” Sam let out a muffled grunt, too late to prevent the leader’s smile from widening in victorious satisfaction. The sound registered through the phone, and newfound concern entered Castiel’s voice as he called Sam’s name once more. 

“Thanks for the tip, friend.” The vampire leader said, chuckling into the receiver. “Your pet here was going to try and take us all down on his own, bless him. Didn’t work out like he planned, though.” He stepped back from Sam, eyeing him happily as he spoke. “We’ll be in touch,” he finished simply before crushing the phone in his fist. Then he returned his attention to the bed where Sam lay, pinned and helpless. 

_Dean._ Sam’s panicked mind couldn’t think of anything else. _Dean’s in danger._

“End of the line, kid,” The leader said with a soft sigh. Teeth bared, he dropped his head and bit, ripping flesh with a beastly fervor. Sam tried to scream, but nothing but a gurgle emerged; he gasped, trying to take in air and instead sucking in a deep breath of hot, thick liquid. He could feel life ebbing from the wound even as he slowly stilled, his feeble attempt at struggling easily thwarted by the superior strength of his captors. The room around him blurred, edges fading to colors and colors fading to light; then the light itself began to fade. And Sam knew he was dying. With great effort, he mustered a single thought, a single word. _Dean._

_Well this just won’t do,_ a familiar voice said with a cool sigh. And fire blazed through Sam’s nerves, pain suddenly returning to his skin in full force. Sam screamed with renewed vigor, rough voice piercing through the haze and returning the world to sharp clarity. A point of pressure blossomed on his neck, spindling its way through his veins and into his heart, where it pooled slowly, heat and pain building until he was sure it would explode inside his chest. And then it did, erupting into the room in a violent flash of purple light; bodies both alive and dead went flying as Sam felt the force shove him even deeper into the shoddy mattress. Nearly blind, Sam lay winded against a broken spring that now stuck through the stained upholstery. A nearby hiss pulled him into action again, and with immeasurable effort he fought his way past the pain still reverberating through his body and swung instinctually, blade sinking with a sharp thud through flesh and straight through to the wall behind. Then all fell silent. 

Sam turned slowly, taking in the aftermath of the blast with labored breaths. The room was littered with bodies. The leader, who Sam had just stabbed hung pinned to the wall, face frozen in a look of anger and surprise. The rest were scattered against the far walls, limbs tangled with furniture and debris. The closet doors hung awkwardly on warped hinges, and the mirror and windows had all shattered. His captors now lay headless by the remnants of the motel door. The walls and the ceiling all bore dents from the blunt force of the blast. And yet here Sam stood, unharmed. He pulled his hand tentatively across his throat, fingers sliding on intact skin. Heat still pulsed steadily on his neck. Turning to take in the rest of the damage, Sam noticed the bed with a twist of his stomach. Where he had lain, a smoldering imprint of the sigil lay burned into the sheets. 

Sam let out a shaky breath. _What in the hell was that?_

Only silence answered him.


	27. Chapter 27

It took Sam longer than he would have liked to find a functioning phone; it seemed the blast in the motel room had also somehow disabled all of the landlines within a mile’s radius. That or he just had really bad luck when it came to phones. Eventually he hotwired an old station wagon in the motel lot and drove to the nearest payphone, at a dingy looking gas station three miles up the road. He eyed the oily sheen on the receiver with distaste, holding it slightly away from his ear as he dialed. 

Castiel picked up before the phone had a chance to ring properly. Sam’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself when the angel started in on a very creative threat involving vampire fangs and shoelaces, and he wondered briefly where he might have picked up such an idea. 

“Cass, it’s me,” Sam interjected before his friend could go on. A moment of quiet met him on the other line, followed by questioning disbelief.

“Sam?” Another moment of quiet. “How did you escape?” 

Sam sighed. _How do I even start to explain whatever the hell that was?_ “I’m…not entirely sure.” The lack of response on the other end suggested he might need to offer something more substantial. “The sigil caused some kind of explosion, I think…I’m not—It wasn’t—I have no idea what the hell happened.” He finished lamely, quickly giving up on his brief attempt to explain the unexplainable. 

After yet another wave of silence, Cass responded in a warmer voice, one that thawed the chill of his earlier threats. “Well, whatever it was, it sounds like it saved you.” 

Sam swallowed, running his hand across his throat yet again. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes momentarily, taking a second to refocus his thoughts. “So. You said you found Dean?”

“He’s with the girl from the article,” the angel said. There was a hint of annoyance in his tone, one Sam rarely heard him use. 

“And something’s fishy with him?” Sam asked, more hopeful than he realized he should be. He worked hard to keep it out of his voice. 

“Yes,” Cass said, “I think he’s been put under some sort of spell.” He recounted his encounter with Dean. 

“That sounds…” Sam said, suddenly thoughtful. He took a deep breath, running through the information Castiel had given him before continuing. “Cass, do me a favor: Does she have any living relatives?” 

“She has a father in a retirement home here,” Cass offered. 

“Good. Go talk to him; see if you can’t find anything else out about her. What’s her age?” He didn’t know. Sam nodded. “Ok, see if you can’t find that out too. I’m going to do some research on my end before heading your way.” He took a deep breath, his next request embarrassing but necessary. “And…make sure Dean doesn’t hook up with her. If I’m right, that’d be really bad news for him. Just like it was for her last five husbands.” 

Cass cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. I’m on it.” Sam mimicked the sound, made even more uncomfortable by the angel’s sudden discomfort. 

“Thanks.” He returned the receiver to the machine, glaring at the shiny residue that had leeched onto his fingers during the conversation. Not wanting to waste more time washing his hands in a bathroom that was likely even dirtier than the payphone, he wiped his hands thoroughly on his jeans. He noticed as he glanced down that drops of scarlet flecked the dark material; after his messy encounter in the motel room he had to change his bloody shirt and wash his neck, but had forgotten to check his pants. Hoping no one else had noticed, he quickly sauntered back to the car. 

_______________________________________________

 _I’m gonna marry this girl,_ Dean thought dreamily as he gazed at Kate, who had tucked herself neatly under his arm as they settled in to watch a movie. He was nervous as it was his first time being in her place, but just like Kate the place was absolutely perfect. He knew that usually the thought of pink faux fur pillows on a baby blue couch would disgust him, but Kate had clearly found exactly the right pillows to match exactly the right couch, and had rented the perfect apartment to put them. He sighed contentedly, realizing just how blessed he was that this perfect woman had stumbled into his life. 

A knock at the door sent a cool tingle down his neck. He recognized it vaguely as the sense he got whenever something was wrong; resting a comforting hand on Kate’s shoulder for a moment, he rose and went to see who was on the other side. Castiel stood on the other side of the door, staring flatly at the eyepiece like he knew exactly who was looking back at him. Dean let out a frustrated sigh and turned back to the living room, determined to sit and enjoy this romantic movie Kate had taken the time to plan for them. Before he could cross the room, however, another knock sounded. 

Dean ripped the door open and growled at his trench-coated friend. “Get out of here, man.” 

Castiel pushed past him into the room. “Sorry, Dean. I’m here on Sam’s orders.” 

“Screw Sam!” Dean said fiercely. A dull ache rumbled in the base of his skull at the words; before meeting Kate, he never would have said something like that. But Kate meant the world to him; she was the most important person in the world. No one else mattered like she did. 

“Is there a problem?” Kate asked quietly, approaching the two of them as they bickered in the doorway. Despite his newness and his sudden intrusion, she didn’t seem at all put off by Castiel’s presence. She placed a hand on Dean's arm, giving him a pointed smile to remind him she had expressed an interest in meeting his friends before. 

“No,” Dean finally growled, eyeing the couch where he was about to have a romantic evening before the angel’s interruption. He looked at Kate, pleading for alone time with her, but she just shook her head. Dean let out a quiet sigh. “Cass, would you like to stay for dinner? Kate would love to meet you properly.” He gave a warning look, which Castiel assumed meant he was not to talk about their actual lifestyle. The angel nodded, glad he had successfully managed to interrupt without having to use the trump card Sam had given him. 

Dinner consisted of an array of vegetables, from salad to steamed corn to what Kate called a “vegan chocolate tomato and beet quiche” that more closely resembled the contents of a trash can if left alone for several days in the hot sun. “Eat up,” Dean said before stabbing another piece of lettuce off of his plate. Castiel watched him warily, expecting his usual tirade about rabbit food and how people were meant to eat meat, but it never came. Kate touched Dean’s wrist affectionately. “Dean’s said he’s interested in going vegan too,” She said, eyeing him proudly. Dean looked at her, and any emotions he might have had over the salad were gone as he gazed dreamily at her face. It almost looked like he was eyeing a beloved deity, rather than someone he had met just a day earlier. Cass put another bite of quiche in his mouth, thankful that nothing but the taste of molecules assaulted his senses. He doubted Dean was so lucky; in fact, despite his endless praise of her cooking prowess, Dean had yet to put even a single bite of the concoction in his mouth. 

“So, is there something that brings you here tonight?” Kate asked, attempting to make small talk. 

“Yes.” Castiel said. The tips of his ears warmed to a bright pink, but no one noticed. “I am here to keep you from copulating on your date tonight.” A charming warmth flushed across her ivory cheeks at the words. Dean stared at him open mouthed, a half-chewed piece of lettuce threatening to fall back onto his plate; he couldn’t believe his friend’s rudeness toward the woman he loved. 

But the angel wasn’t finished yet. _Give them a reason_ , Sam had told Cass, and so he did. 

“He has Chlamydia.” Dean choked on the sip of beer he had taken to calm his nerves, spiraling into a fit of sputtering coughs. Kate’s eyes shifted from Castiel’s to Dean’s and back again, not sure what to make of the whole situation. 

“It’s not true,” Dean said hoarsely through coughs. “I’ve got no clue what he’s on, but that is NOT true.” He turned and gripped Castiel by the shirt collar over the table, muttering quietly just where he could stick his mouth for saying something like that in front of her. After taking a moment to recompose herself, Kate simply smiled and cleared her throat. 

“You were right about him being odd, Dean.” Dean shifted his gaze to her, expression of anger and disbelief fading quickly to blind adoration once more. 

“I was, wasn’t I?” he said, as if he was proud of himself for saying so. She rewarded him with a widening smile. Castiel fought the urge to roll his eyes. Sam had better hurry up with that research. And he had better be right; Castiel didn’t know how long he could keep these two apart.


	28. Chapter 28

Sam stared at the computer screen with a huff of disbelief. Despite the fact that all of his research had done nothing but solidify his theory, he had to admit that he never honestly thought he would encounter this particular monster in his lifetime. And despite the slight difference when compared with Slavic folklore, it had indeed been his favorite fiction series (not that he would ever admit it to anyone, let alone Dean) that had even brought them to mind. He shook his head, impressed and secretly relieved that he finally had a reason for Dean leaving so abruptly. It was likely he hadn't had a choice. Not when up against something like this.

Now that he had what he needed, there was no point in hanging around this cafe any longer. He grabbed his coffee off the table as he slipped his laptop into his bag and made his way to the door. His stolen station wagon had been replaced with a generic grey sedan, one that would draw absolutely no notice on the road. He had to laugh. While he wouldn't give up his brother for anything, he always found it interesting how different his lifestyle would be if he were on his own. The thought of Dean in this cafe was comical, like a bull in a china shop. His face would set in that uncomfortable stony look he always wore in such places. And yet on several occasions Dean had wordlessly handed Sam drinks exactly like this. It was the little things that showed just how much he cared. It was the little things that made Sam want his brother back so desperately. He rubbed his hand over the mark thoughtlessly, wincing when the marks burned under the touch. 

Once he was safely on the road he whipped out his new prepay cellphone and dialed Cass. The angel answered immediately, hope and exhaustion intermingling effortlessly in his tone. "Sam. Please tell me you have something." Sam almost laughed at just how human his angel friend sounded at the moment. 

"Tough night?" Sam asked, though he suspected he knew the answer. 

"It's a good thing she has impeccable manners, and interest in more than the physical aspects of a relationship." 

"Well, I think I know what we're dealing with. Have you heard of a Vila?" Sam only paused a moment before continuing. "They're spirits native to eastern Europe; some believe that they're a vengeful spirit, the ghost of women left at the alter who later killed themselves. Other legends link them loosely to the fae, a nature spirit that guards the forest. But one thing they have in common is their irrisistibility to men. Sound familiar?" 

"Very." A woman's giggle echoed across the line. "Dean is going vegan for her. So you think this girl is a vila?" 

Sam sighed. "Maybe. What did you learn about her father?" 

"He is currently in Blackwell Retirement Home. I visited him briefly but he was sleeping. I haven't been able to return." Based on the continued giggling in the background, Sam suspected he knew why. "I did gain access to her birth records, however. There was a brief mention of strange circumstances, but no detail."

"How old did it say she was?" 

"According to the records? 47. She doesn't look older than 25." 

Sam nodded, confirming yet another part of his theory. "Longevity supports the latter theory. In fact, it's suggested in some of these legends that their longevity comes from their victims, the men who love them who die mysteriously shortly after....you know." He cleared his throat and blushed. For whatever reason discussing this topic with Cass had to be the most awkward thing he had ever done. "And considering that age, and the fact that those documents could very easily be manipulated 47 years ago, its possible her father isn't her father at all. He could be a former lover, or a cover." Sam ran a hand through his touseled hair, made wilder from the lack of sleep overnight. He didn't bother glancing in the rearview mirror to see just how shitty he looked. He could feel it on his face. "So there are two listed ways to kill a Vila; burning, or plucking a hair off her head. I want you to try the latter."

"I can't." Cass said almost immediately. Sam paused, eyebrows warping in confusion. 

"Why?"

"Dean won't let me near her. I've been trying to get a read on her energy all night. Whatever she's done to him, he's become a guard dog. He's even painted sigils on the wall where she can't see. Anytime I come anywhere near he threatens to use it. And if this first attempt doesn't work and we need to keep them apart, one of us needs to be here. I'm the only thing preventing....something." Sam cleared hs throat yet again. 

"Ok. I'm only two hours out. Just hang in there until I get there. We'll save Dean. I swear it."


	29. Chapter 29

When his grey sedan pulled up outside the bar at the address Cass had texted to him, Sam had to take a moment to swallow back his concern. Hearing about Dean's lovestruck ways was one thing, but suddenly the thought of seeing them in action affected him so much more. He had seen Dean flirt his way through every bar, diner, and motel across the country, and the image of his confident lady-killer smirk always made Sam snort in amusement. But if Cass was right, it seemed the devotion he was showing to this girl was of a different caliber entirely, enchanted or not. Sam thought briefly of his brother with Cassie all those years ago, and wondered if his behavior now would be similar. Or would the enchantment simply blow away any pretence of posturing and detachment Dean often favored over honest affection? Sam didn't know, but the thought made the mark flutter unsettlingly. He hovered a hand over it in concern; what was it warning him against? Regardless, he knew what he had to do, and that he had to do it fast. 

He stepped through the doors and walked purposefully to the bar, snagging a stool that gave him a clear vantage of the joint. He sat quickly, not wanting his height to draw unwanted attention. He ordered a beer and began surveying the room, looking for a familiar face. He caught a pair of blue eyes watching him from across the bar; the angel nodded to a table just out of view to the left. Sam nodded. The location of their table couldn't have been better; it provided Sam with plenty of room to approach out of sight. He pointed to the left, then the right, shrugging his shoulders in question. Cass nodded to the left again, and Sam signed his thanks. 

Not wanting the moment to escape him, Sam decided instead to just go for it. He stood casually and made for the back, like he needed to use the facilities. As he neared the partition he slowed, not wanting to crouch until it was absolutely necessary; if the people around him became terribly aware of him, it was just as bad as being spotted directly by Dean. He crouched right as he rounded the corner, out of sight. He was thankful people rarely sat at the tables in the back quarter of a bar unless it was packed. This way no one could see him as he hid from the table in front of him. He glanced at Cass, who was pointedly avoiding his gaze, apparently being watched by Dean. Sam waved two fingers, indicating that Cass should try and keep his attention as Sam moved. 

Sam peered around the corner to find out exactly how far he needed to go. Luckily, he only had to move a foot before her hair was within reaching distance. Dean could move fast, but Sam hoped that his blind adoration would delay him at least slightly. That and Sam had the distinct advantage of a clear shot, rather than the table and chair that stood in Dean's way. Sam took a deep breath, steadied his exhausted wobbling, and moved. 

His fingers closed around a handful of strands seconds before Dean's firm hands gripped Sam by the shirt, slamming him hard against the table. Sam felt his tender ribs complain, but maintained his grip on the blonde hair. With a rip that seemed loud even for tearing hair the strands tore free, and Kate gasped in surprise and pain, eyes welling with tears. Dean looked at her in a panic, his face of anger morphing into one of livid fury. Wordlessly Dean lifted his fist from Sam's shirt and pounded it into Sam's face, catching his jaw and barely missing his nose. Sam grunted in pain, expecting this reaction. But when his fist came again, then again, Sam realized quickly that pulling the hair hadn't stopped what was going on. He blocked as best as he could, finally kicking Dean squarely in the chest and sending him back just far enough that he could gain some room. 

He had initially planned on escaping if the first attempt didn't work, hanging back and then following them when they left, torching her when he had the next opportunity. But as he turned and saw the utter shock on her face, he became less and less sure that she was a vila, as he had suspected. Especially since a monster usually knew the basics about the lore surrounding them, knowing at the very least what people believed could kill them. She simply watched him with pain and confusion on her face, as if she never in a million years imagined that she would be treated so by an unrelated stranger. Feeling unexpectedly remorseful, Sam chose to retreat. Maybe he needed to do more research after all. Or maybe...maybe this was one of the monsters that the lore had all wrong? His stomach plummeted at the thought. 

Castiel met Sam briefly in the alley as he ran from the building; Sam had instructed him not to get involved so Dean wouldn't feel the need to chase him off too. Until they were sure Dean was safe, Sam didn't want to take any chances with this girl. The angel eyed him with deep pity; to feel abandoned by, and then be pummeled by the one person he relied on most had to hurt a thousand times more than the blossoming bruises on his face. His left eye was bleeding slightly, and Dean's ring had cut a sharp gash into his left temple. Before Sam could refuse the angel reached up and touched the scars with a blast of healing energy; instead of absorbing it, however, the sigil on Sam's neck thrust it back, rejecting it entirely. Cass stared at Sam, who was still trying to be unaffected by his recent beat-down. 

"I need to talk to her father," Sam said, ignoring the situation completely. Castiel wanted to discuss Sam's current problem, but could tell that much like Dean, when his brother was in danger nothing else mattered. That or Sam was deflecting, still trying to get his feelings under control. Castiel was never sure which it was. He hoped leaving the discussion until after solving the case wasn't a mistake. Finally Castiel nodded. "Be careful, Sam. You look terrible, and will look even worse as those bruises set in. If you need backup, you know where to find me."

Sam agreed. "And if you need backup, the same goes for you." he clapped the angel affectionately on the shoulder. Cass noticed his left shoulder tense with the sudden use, and realized Sam had likely used his left arm intentionally, wanting to avoid any accidental contact with his mark, which still pulsed black and angry under his clothes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam was already gone, jogging down the alley to his car. Cass had to admire just how far Sam's feelings for his brother could carry him, even when battling powerful magic of his own.


	30. Chapter 30

Blackwell Retirement Home was one of the most pleasant looking retirement homes Sam had ever seen. It wasn't luxurious by a long stretch, but the facility had been split into rows of townhouses, allowing all residents to have a small plot of green in front of their front door without the hassle of having to maintain it themselves. It gave the property the vibe of a fairy-tale cottage, surrounded by gardens filled with bees and butterflies. But despite its soothing appearance, Sam couldn't relax. The events at the restaurant kept flickering through his mind: Kate's face, filled with shock and sadness; Dean's face of anger and distrust, laced with an undercurrent of unbearable apathy. And that last look is what Sam had feared the most, he realized. Used to always finding care in his brother's eyes in one form or another, the shock of seeing that warmth suddenly wiped away burned even now, hours after the encounter. As Sam approached Mr. Helinski's townhome, Sam began to wonder about things he had glossed over in his rush to free his brother. Even if they killed the vila, if she was a vila, would Dean return to normal? There had been little documentation of men being rescued from the spirits. He had been so focused on identifying the monster and how to kill it he hadn't even considered the possibility his brother could be stuck this way. Sam swallowed thickly, shoving the thoughts aside as he rung the doorbell. 

A few moments of silence passed, and Sam wondered if the bell had even worked. But after a long minute he heard shuffling on the other side, and soon an elderly man pulled the door open with considerable effort. He was curled neatly over a cane that clearly supported most of his weight. Age had knit itself deeply into his face, carving deep wrinkles across his forehead and beneath his eyes, pulling the excess skin of his cheeks down past his jawline. "May I help you?" a tired voice croaked. 

Sam introduced himself as a lifestyle counselor, figuring that was safer than going for the whole agent routine. Not that it would have mattered; the man in front of him was too out of it to even remember where he said he was from. Mr. Helinski was beyond friendly, though, and Sam hoped it would be easy to get the answers he needed. 

"Now, let's talk about your daughter," Sam said, careful to avoid her name and jogging any memories and cover stories he might have forgotten. 

"Oh, yes, Katelyn. She's such a beautiful girl, isn't she?" He sighed dreamily, gazing at a portrait on the wall. "She's grown up so much...looks just like her mother." Sam could hear the genuity in his words.

So there went Sam's initial theory. But Cass had searched her apartment for any spellbooks or hexbags, and nothing had turned up. She didn't naturally radiate power like strong magic users did, and without those things it was unlikely she had put a formal spell on Dean. That also wouldn't explain how it had affected him from so far away. His heart sank slightly. Was it possible...had Dean just left on his own? Had he finally gotten tired of worrying after Sam? Sam knew that Dean often viewed his self-assigned responsibilty to take care of Sam as a burden. If that burden had been too much, was it possible he had just snapped? The mark burned threateningly, and Sam quickly swallowed back those thoughts. He would work the case to the end, and deal with the aftermath only after he had exhausted all other resources. 

"According to the records, there were some special circumstances surrounding her brith?" Sam prompted instead, fighting to keep his hand off of the throbbing sigil on his shoulder. Mr. Helinski nodded amiably, eyes cast up like he was reading the story out of the air. 

"Katelyn's mother was beautiful," He reiterated, nodding as if agreeing with himself. He gestured to a picture on the wall of him and his daughter on a fishing trip. Katelyn looked to be about 16 in this photo, grinning happily with a large fish in her hands. "I remember the first time I heard her voice, I knew she was meant for me. She was perfect; kind, and intelligent too. We had a..." he chuckled briefly, "a whirlwind romance. Barely a month had passed and she was pregnant." He sighed, curling slightly further inward in the chair where he had taken residence. 

"She told me she never really liked the thought of tying herself to one man. I convinced her to stay with me for those nine months only by telling her I would keep our daughter if she felt the need to leave. The thought of her leaving was...crushing, but I was strong for her.

"And one night, she sent me out for an errand--buying her some fruit to make a jam she loved, if I remember correctly. It was a long trek, but I'd do anything for her." His mouth stilled, and the amiable feeling he had been generating up to this point was muted by a bone-aching sadness. Sam almost thought he felt his mark flicker sympathetically at the change in character. 

"When I returned, she was gone. Katelyn lay sleeping in the crib, already birthed and washed. She left no note, no indication she had been there save our daughter." He sighed. "I'm just so thankful she gave me my darling Kate; I don't know what I'd do without her."

Sam gave a moment of respectful silence, eyebrows curving up in sympathy. A few recent experiences had given him ample time to learn just how painful it was for someone you cared for to disappear like that. To never see them again...that had to hurt much worse. Finally, he asked his next question. 

"Where did you meet her?" He had a quickly growing theory, but didn't want to get his hopes up too soon. Even if he was right, would he be able to do anything?

"The woods, believe it or not; I was out for a hike when I stumbled across her, in that little clearing on the hill a few miles in. She was sleeping when I found her. And then the moment our eyes met....I knew it was destiny that had brought me to her."

Sam had him point to the spot on a map before thanking him for his time and setting out. The sun had set during his visit, and the older gentleman waved him off with a sleepy yawn and a gentle smile. Sam returned it. It slipped off the moment the door shut, thrusting Sam back into worry and uncertainty. The pain pulsing in his shoulder throbbed harder, and Sam staggered briefly, throwing a hand out to catch the stone wall. He realized he was likely in no shape to take a three mile hike into the woods, but with Cass tied up with his brother he also realized he didn't have a choice. He steeled himself, taking deep breaths until the spots in his eyes settled back into the periphery. Rest would have to wait until Dean was safe.


	31. Chapter 31

Sam coughed as he supported himself on a nearby tree, hooking an elbow over one of the low hanging branches as he swayed on his feet. Exhaustion stripped his lungs, and it was only with great effort that he managed to suck in a breath, then another, until finally the world around him settled back into place. The sigil pulsed in time with his heartbeat, which had remained sluggish despite the physical exertion of the last hour. He glanced at the map, taking in his surroundings. Night had already fallen in the woods which made navigating them next to impossible. But Sam was determined to do it anyway, positive he wouldn't be able to sit still, much less sleep, until he had done all he could to save Dean from whatever had taken him over. 

Once he was sure he wasn't going to collapse, he let go of the tree and continued on the almost nonexistent path. Another 20 minutes of stumbling blindly through the dark with nothing more than a small flashlight to see by, he found himself standing at the edge of a hill that stood out starkly from the rest of its surroundings. Instead of being covered by the same selection of oak and hickory that dominated the rest of the forest, the hill stood largely barren of trees, instead covered with tall waving grasses and wildflowers that had clearly bloomed out of season. The chill fall air would do little to aid in their survival, and yet here they thrived. At the top of the hill stood an oak unlike the rest of the trees below; each branch easily the size of the other surrounding trunks. The faint moonlight that crept into the clearing through the canopy revealed an artistic perfection to its limbs, and the electric tingle on Sam's skin confirmed that this tree did not reach this size through natural causes. 

He took a deep breath, can of hair spray and lighter ready to go. He had snatched the spray from the old man's house, wondering why such an object would be there before remembering his daughter was known to visit him quite frequently. He wondered briefly if Dean had met the man yet. Once his breath and vision had settled, he began his ascent, keeping low and hidden amongst the tall grasses. He knew that his current plan was more than a long shot, but figured he owed it to the girl and Dean to try this before condemning the girl herself, who was clearly unaware of what was happening to her--and those who had the misfortune to receive her love. 

He reached the tree quickly and spun in a slow circle, not sure how exactly a pure-blooded vila differed from a vila-human hybrid like Katelyn. Folklore said that vila would reveal themselves to those who travelled alone; while he wasn't sure it would work, he had done a simple warding spell in an attempt to shield himself at least somewhat from her abilities. He rested a hand on the symbol he had painted on his forearm, silently praying that it would work. 

"I know why you're here," a crystalline voice echoed from above; Sam whipped his head up at the sound, searching the dark branches for any sign of movement. "Oh, no, I'm not going to reveal myself so quickly; not with you waving that makeshift weapon around like that. Drop it and then we'll talk."

"Why would you want to talk?"

"Because I have a solution to your problem. I can help us both. But I need you to listen." 

Sam let out a shaky sigh, eyeing the items in his hands contemplatively before finally setting them on the ground in front of him. Immediately they flew into the air and came to rest on a thick level branch several feet above his head. He bit back a complaint; there went his plan of catching her off-guard. He fingered the canister of salt in his pocket. He wondered if that trick would work on her like it did the other fairies they had encountered a few years ago. 

"There's no need for that," the voice said, suddenly much clearer and from his left. He spun and came face to face with a woman of unspeakable beauty. Gossamer hair tumbled about her shoulders, and pale skin shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Her gown drifted around her as if caught in a breeze, though the air around him stood still. Pale blue eyes captured his and held them, and an uncomfortable warmth burned in his chest. At first he thought he was succumbing to her enchantment; then a sharp pain burned through the sigil, and he realized that the heat had come from the mark instead. It flared purple briefly before returning to its darker form. Sam saw the light shift on his skin and braced for another explosion, but none came. 

The woman beside him eyed the mark curiously. "That's an ominous looking warding spell. And the only one I've ever seen that has actually worked against my natural abilities." She looked impressed, though Sam found it hard to read expressions on her face through the raw beauty that seemed to pour off of her. When she returned her gaze to Sam's, however, he thought he saw a flicker of sadness there. 

"So you wanted to talk,"he prompted, having trouble sounding angry between the pain from the mark and the confusion her appearance was causing. While the mark blocked feelings of adoration, her body physically radiated power and beauty, and the sensation was overwhelming. 

She nodded briefly, hair tumbling softly back and forth. "About my daughter." She smiled as Sam's gaze sharpened. "Yes, you were right about Katelyn. She's half human, which dilutes her powers. Not enough to provide her with a happy ending though, it seems." Her gaze never wavered, but slowly a wave of sadness replaced the earlier flicker, and Sam found his eyebrows quirking in sympathy despite his best efforts to resist. "But I have a way to help her. And you've finally brought the last piece I need." 

Sam's look of sympathy shifted back to one of confusion. "What do you mean?"

She smiled at him. "You were on the right track, thinking that killing me would curb her powers. Normally, burning me would only transfer my powers onto her, which would eventually force you to kill two of us, instead of one. But with that hair of hers," she pointed to Sam's jacket pocket, where he had placed the strands in case he needed to bring evidence he had encountered her daughter, "I can draw what residual powers she has into it, and by extension out of her before you kill me. That way, my curse lives and dies with me." 

"Curse?" Sam asked with a hint of suspicion. 

She sighed. "You assume we intentionally use these powers. I assure you, we do not want them any more than you want to be affected by them. We can't supress it. And if by some misfortune we fall for and reciprocate the feelings of one of our victims, they die. We cannot love. If we do, their lives are over."

"But...Mr. Helinski--"

"Peter Helinski..." She sighed, and her gown fluttered at the breath, revealing delicate shoulders under the flowing sleeves. "It's a wonder he survived our first night. I think it was because I was feeling lonely that night. I didn't fall for him; I just needed the company. A vila pregnancy is astronomically rare; I think it likely he has some fairy blood in his own bloodline, and that's why Katelyn was conceived. And Katelyn...I had hoped she would have a normal life, and live it in my place. After tonight, hopefully she can." She extended her hand to Sam, who fished the napkin that held Katelyn's hair. He realized he should probably be questioning all of this, but the exhaustion that had burrowed deep in his bones made it hard to do much more than move. She took the cloth from him gently and with a flick of her wrist set his makeshift weapon back on the ground in front of him. He picked it up and looked at her. 

"Now what?"

She unfolded the napkin and tipped the golden strands into her hand, cradling them between her fingers. Sam watched as she began muttering indistinctly under her breath; almost immediately the hair began to glow, drawing in small molecules of light as they drifted toward the vila. She continued muttering and the light continued to grow until her resonance was almost unbearable. She then turned to Sam and smiled; the sadness was almost intangible through the brilliant light. "Thank you."

Sam lit the lighter, holding her gaze as he it up with the can. He gave her a slight nod. "Thank you." Then he sprayed, and within moments she was swallowed in flames. the grasses at his feet ignited too, and he stumbled quickly from the hillside, hoping he hadn't just condemned the entire forest. The blaze scaled the branches of the ancient oak, swallowing leaves and limbs in light before flickering out to nothing. Nothing but ash remained on the hill. 

Sam pulled out his phone and called Castiel, desperate to know whether it had worked. But the phone rang through. As he started to redial, he felt the world around him warp, all the exaustion he had been pushing off crashing down on top of him at once. The mark pulsed warmly, almost eagerly as he slipped under. He felt his cheek hit the rough ground, and tasted the faint tang of blood. But Sam couldn't even summon the energy to reach up and check for injuries. The last thing he saw was his phone screen, lighting up with Dean's name. Relief filled his limbs at the sight; then the darkness pulled him under.


	32. Chapter 32

"Sam!" 

Dean bellowed his brother's name into the dark woods, his breath manifesting in small puffs of condensing mist in the cool night air. He glanced at his phone again, hands shaking slightly as he double-checked to make sure he had used the correct coordinates. The GPS beeped as if in confirmation, displaying the blue and red dots on the map in a perfect overlap. Dean let out a tense breath, head dropping for a moment in despair. A comforting hand landed on his shoulder. "Dammit, Cass! He's supposed to be here." The hand clutching the phone dropped lifelessly to his side. "He's supposed to be here."

"We'll find him, Dean." The angel sounded surer than he felt. Dean fidgeted with the phone in his hands, staring desperately at it as if Sam would call him at any moment. When nothing happened he jammed his thumb on the call button, pressing the device to his ear as it began to ring. After a few seconds a musical note echoed faintly through the trees. Ripping the phone from his ear, Dean ran toward the sound, ignoring the branches as they caught him across the jaw, nicking the skin. 

"Sam!" He shouted again, the forest's only response a faint echo of his brother's name as it bounced back off the trunks. Then the silence Dean feared so deeply settled back into the woods, saturating his breath with uncertainty. A few more yards brought him face to face with a rectangular blue screen that gleamed faintly from the undergrowth. He snatched Sam's phone up and spun quickly, searching the area for any sign of his brother. He didn't know how to feel; while there was no sign of a body or a fight of any kind, his brother was still nowhere to be found. His stomach rolled and he sucked in another shaky breath, eyes constantly shifting between hard determination and trembling fear. 

Cass had filled him in about everything that had happened since that morning in the motel. Dean's guilt pressed in on him from all sides. His leaving had done irrevocable damage, and he was paying for it now. 

His return to reality had been harsh. In fact, the word harsh seemed mild in comparison to the jarring sensation. The faint pulse of warm peace that had surrounded him for the last few days had been washed away in seconds by a wave of emotion so strong he didn't think he could put a name to it all. He tasted fear, concern, anger, confusion, and absence. He blinked slowly as he took in the dark wood of the bar counter, the sweaty drink glass nestled between his rough fingers, the half-eaten salad tucked between him and the woman he suddenly didn't recognize. Sandy blonde hair, slightly frizzy from the damp warmth of the bar framed a pair of blue eyes muddled with confusion and relief; she stared at him as if he too were an alien. He withdrew his other hand from her fingers, blinking more rapidly as pain settled into the knuckles of his right hand. He glanced down and saw specks of blood dotting them. An image of his fist crashing into Sam's face struck him, and he sucked in a breath as he stood from the barstool and spun in a slow circle, trying to make some sense of his current situation. 

Castiel appeared at his side in seconds. "Dean." His gruff voice became the first familiar thing he heard.

"Cass." He looked at his face, questions erupting from every corner of his mind. "What happened?"

"I think Sam just saved you." He didn't sound as relieved as he should. Dean swallowed thickly.

"And where's Sam?" 

The angel looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern. "I don't...know. After you beat him, he left to talk to her father. I haven't heard from him since." Dean stared at him for a moment, a silent accusation clear in his gaze. The angel sighed, not needing Dean to put it into words; he had seen this look too many times to not know what it meant. "I was needed here; to protect you." Finally Dean nodded, too concerned to waste time arguing. He pulled his phone from his pocket and went straight to speeddial; Sam was the first number on the list. He held his breath as the phone rang once, then twice, three times...he let it out when it jumped to voicemail, Dean's cheery tones ringing in his own ear with the silly insults he had replaced the previous greeting with. He hung up, turning back to the angel. 

"He's not answering." He wondered if stating the obvious was an attempt to soothe his turbulent nerves; if so it sure wasn't working. 

"His phone was damaged in a fight yesterday." The angel pulled out his phone and paused, glancing at the screen. "He called me from a differenct cell number a few moments ago." 

Dean took the phone and redialled quickly, hoping Sam had just screened him earlier. Let him be pissed but fine. Pissed Sam he could handle. Probably. It'd be a hell of a lot better than what he was picturing, anyway. But when the same voicemail greeted him a second time, he felt the beginning pangs of panic flame up in his stomach. "C'mon, Sam! Pick up the damn phone!" He turned to leave, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. 

"Dean," A female voice said from behind him. He turned to find the woman from the bar staring back at him, uncertainty overwhelming all of her features. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry, sweetheart," he managed shakily, heading toward the door even as he met her gaze. "I've gotta go." While the words were not unkind a profound disinterest rang through them, and he turned his back as moisture glistened threateningly in her eyes. His concern for his missing brother overwhelmed him, with the question of where to start searching the only thought with any handhold in his head. Castiel, unsure what to do, gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic look before heading after his friend, his concern equally high. 

Sam didn't pick up the next twenty times he tried to call. The old man he had gone to see had long since gone to sleep, and despite breaking in and making a ton of noise, he couldn't get the old man to wake. After throwing a set of metal pots down the stairs to no avail, he stormed out. After an hour of no answer, Dean activated the GPS on his phone, positive he was dying or dead somewhere in the dark. Cass's description of the sigil's expansion increased his fear tenfold; standing here with Sam's abandoned phone did nothing at present to numb those feelings. Trying hard not to let the despair overwhelm him, Dean forced himself to turn in a slow circle, sliding his flashlight beam methodically across the ground as he searched for any sign of his brother. Eventually the light fell on a large bootprint, and then another. He called to the angel, and the two of them followed the trail straight back to the highway. The tracks led all the way to the southward side of the highway, and vanished a few yards ahead on the shoulder. 

"I think he hitched a ride from here," Dean said, pointing to the faint tracks plastered to the asphalt. The fear that had swallowed him began to dissapate slightly, though a feeling in his gut told him something was still terribly wrong here. "We should check the next couple of towns along this road; this highway is small enough I doubt it gets much more than local traffic." He took a deep breath, scanning the surrounding woods once more for some kind of hint. "Where the hell are you, Sammy?"


	33. Chapter 33

Sam felt like he was lying in hot soup; his skin felt damp and slimy and a sharp coppery taste burned in the back of his throat. Heat pressed on him from all sides; when he shifted and the heat followed, he realized it was the temperature of his own skin. Exhaustion weighed on his eyelids, making it significantly harder to find out where he was. After a few failed tries, however, he managed to peel them open. Stained blue cotton was the first thing he saw. Then the fabric morphed into a quilt, the quilt into a bed, and the bed into a dingy motel room so similar to all the other ones he had stayed in over the years it almost felt familiar. He sighed, pain slowing him as he fought to push himself into a sitting position. Staying with his face mashed into the comforter was unbearably tempting, but he had things to do. A brother to find. 

He grunted with effort, finding it more difficult than he expected to remain vertical. But thoughts of Dean pulled him to his feet, and then to the door. While his replacement phone was missing, his wallet was still secure in his back pocket, and his gun rested comfortingly against his back, the cool steel keeping him focused on the task at hand. He wobbled slightly as he turned the door handle, gripping the frame in an attempt to stabilize himself. He began to rethink his initial plan to drive, pretty sure that in this state all he would find was the bottom of a ditch. 

He wondered how he had managed to make it to a motel in the first place. After passing out in the forest and seeing Dean's number light up on his phone screen, Sam had no memory. But when he considered how exhausted he was, he wasn't terribly surprised. Six hours had escaped him the last time he'd shut his eyes. For all he knew he had checked in while somnambulant. He let out a huff of amusement, picturing his large swaying frame in front of the desk counter, eyes closed, nonchalantly handing over cash and a false ID; he did it so often nowadays it wasn't hard to consider the possibility he had done it in his sleep. 

A familiar rumble drew his eyes to the parking lot, and he found himself squinting painfully in the wake of the Impala's bright headlights. He heard the engine cut out and watched blearily as two doors swung open and two fuzzy shadows emerged. Was the ground tilting? He staggered to the side, missing the door frame and meeting the floor instead. He heard indistinct shouting, one of the voices deep, rough, and eternally familiar. "Dean," he slurred, fighting to raise his head and get a better view of his brother. Muted pangs of relief and dregs of trepidation rang in his chest as he heard the leather of Dean's jacket flutter closer to him.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, spilling gracefully to his knees in front of his brother. Sam made a feeble attempt to move, arm shifting slightly and head rising barely an inch off the floor. His eyes flickered open and closed, as if he couldn't decide whether he was going to pass out or not. Without thinking, Dean scooped his brother up by the shoulders and pulled him onto his lap; Sam hissed as Dean's fingers gripped his left shoulder, and Dean noticed an unnatural heat radiating from beneath his clothes. He released him, adjusting his grip so he could avoid Sam's left side. "Oh Sammy, I'm so sorry," he managed, trying hard to swallow the moisture that threatened to build in his eyes. His voice was raw, and upon hearing it Sam shifted again and mumbled, words barely discernable. 

"'r y'okay...?" Sam managed, and Dean let out a dark laugh before swallowing, nodding his head and giving Sam what he hoped was a smile. Even while falling to pieces in front of him, Sam never failed to worry about his older brother. Dean's heart ached at the sight in his arms. He took in the bruising on his little brother's face, the gash above his left eye, all clearly the result of his fist. He hugged Sam to his chest, wishing he was in a state to deal it back to him. To know that those marks were caused by him... He deserved that and more for letting his little brother end up like this. He pulled Sam's head away gently, keeping a hand on the side of Sam's face, using the other to smoothe his hair before bringing it to rest on the other side. 

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm fine. Thanks to you, right?" He stroked his hair again, his breathing growing ragged with emotion. Sam grunted, nodding slowly as relief blossomed on his face. Then his head slipped back, and his face settled into the empty expression Dean knew all too well. When Sam slept, emotion played subtly across his features. It was only when he lost consciousness that this neutrality played across his features. "No, c'mon, stay with me, man!" No reaction. "Sam?" Dean tried, but he knew he wouldn't get a response. He let out a shaky sigh, taking in the motel room to find a spot where the unconscious Sam would be the most comfortable when he woke. _If he wakes,_ a dark voice in the back of his head muttered unhelpfully. He shoved the thought forcefully away. That was when he noticed the trench coated angel standing in the door, watching Sam with concern but standing with his damn hands in his pockets. "Heal him,"Dean said, clearly not asking. 

Castiel sighed, fixing Dean with a look containing sadness and...was that a note of panic? He rarely saw the angel's eyes so lively. "I can't." 

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"I've tried twice, but the sigil is rejecting any outside magic. Including mine." He looked at his hands, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "I can't help him." 

"Oh, Sammy," Dean managed, feeling the dead weight of his brother in his arms. With Castiel's help, he returned Sam to the bed and grabbed the desk chair, placing it directly beside the bed. From this proximity he could see the black lines that had replaced the purple tendrils of the sigil; even hovering his hand above the mark, he could feel the heat pouring off of it. "Dammit," he muttered to himself. Was there nothing he could do? 

Dean grit his teeth and blinked sharply, fighting to maintain control even through his panic. Sam wasn't dead. His heart was still beating, and he was breathing steadily now that the subconscious parts of his brain had taken over. According to what Cass had told him, Sam hadn't slept for close to 24 hours, and after the amount of sleep he had been getting, he was probably beyond exhausted, especially now that he was contending with constant pain. The best thing he could do right now was to let his brother sleep, and protect him while he did. 

Castiel could see Dean's thoughts were eating him alive; he had begun to chew on the inside of his cheek, hands knit tightly together on the back of the wooden chair, gaze glued to his brother's prone form. Sam slept like the dead, completely motionless save the rise and fall of his chest. Dean watched it move like a hawk, like he was prepared to swoop in and start breathing for his brother should Sam's lungs somehow fail. The angel glanced in frustration at his hands once again, wishing there was some way to circumvent the mark and help Sam recover. He looked much worse than he had when Cass had left him at the first motel. He still didn't understand what had happened there; Sam had just shrugged him off, telling him a couple of straggler vamps from the last case had tracked him down. But he wouldn't say how many, or what exactly had happened with the mark. He had told Dean that Sam had mentioned an explosion, hoping the older brother would be able to pry less elusive answers from him. But until he woke, neither one of them would be getting any answers. Castiel just prayed that he would. 

Eventually the constant tension burning through Dean got the better of him, and a fitful sleep settled in its place. He dozed on the chair backwards, chin propped on one arm while the other stretched unconsciously toward Sam. If it weren't for Sam's implication that Dean's touch worsened the mark, Dean simply would have held Sam's hand, willing him back to consciousness. His sleeping fingers occasionally twitched in phantom longing. Without physical touch, how was he to know Sam was still there?

He woke to find Sam in exactly the same spot, out cold even 24 hours after first passing out. Castiel was gone, but Dean gave his absence little thought, too focused on how motionless Sam looked. Unwilling to resist, he carefully reached up and checked his pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when it came in strong and steady. His chest rose and fell in further confirmation. Then he noted the color of Sam's skin; the sickly pale that had overtaken him had faded slightly, replaced instead with a cooler version of his ordinary skin tone. The jagged angles of his cheekbones had eased slightly, and the bags were a slightly lighter shade of gray. While he would never pass for healthy, he was clearly better than the day before. 

"You need to eat." The angel said suddenly, drawing Dean out of his thoughts. A greasy paper bag with the tempting smell of bacon and eggs landed unceremoniously in his lap. Castiel then placed a cup of coffee on the nightstand and returned to the seat across the motel room that he had occupied for most of the night. Dean huffed lightly, surprised that Castiel had even thought of something like food. He reluctantly removed his gaze from Sam long enough to open the bag and pull out the first breakfast sandwich. The grease had soaked temptingly through the paper wrappings, and with a brief word of thanks to Cass, Dean lifted the food to his mouth without argument. 

Then Sam shifted. Dean froze half chew. "'am?" He tried through his bite. Sam's brows crinkled, his wrist twitching slightly. Dean swallowed the bite without hesitation, ignoring the pain as the crisp toast scratched its way down his throat. "Sam?" he tried again. 

Hazel eyes fluttered open, and Sam turned his head with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "That smells amazing. Can I have some?" He sat up, reaching for the bag. Dean just nodded dumbly, passing over his own sandwich as well. Sam brought the food to his lips without hesitation, wolfing the sandwich down in less than five bites. The second one was gone just as quickly. Sam then ran a hand across his mouth with a greasy smear, giving Dean a cheeky grin. Dean just stared back, realizing with a start he didn't recognize the person looking back through Sam's eyes; these eyes were too stiff, too cold. 

Then Sam blinked, and suddenly it was his little brother gazing back at him. Dean rubbed his eyes, wondering if the stress was finally getting to him. "What is it?" Sam asked, seeing the doubtful look in his brother's eyes. 

"It's nothing, Sammy," Dean said with a sigh and a relieved smile. "Welcome back."


	34. Chapter 34

"How many?" Dean glowered at Sam, who shifted uncomfortably on the bed. When he didn't answer, Dean prompted him again. "How many were there, Sam?" 

Sam sighed. "Seven." 

"Se-" Dean broke off, closing his eyes and holding up a hand. "I'm sorry, did you say seven?" Sam nodded, not looking up. Dean turned his gaze to Castiel, who was still sitting in his chair with an expression of shock; _Good,_ Dean thought, still pissed that the angel had abandoned Sam when he had. Cass shifted his gaze to Dean, unable to respond to the accusation that hovered in his stare. 

"Cass had no way of knowing, Dean." Sam said quietly. Dean didn't acknowledge the words. "Dean, I was the one who sent him after you. You were missing. You could have been in danger."

"Oh, and you weren't?" Dean rounded on him, gesturing angrily to the black lines that covered Sam's neck. "The sigil freaks out, floors you, nearly kills you, and you send him after me like it's nothing?" He sighed, running a hand roughly across his temples. "Dammit, Sam." 

Sam let out a soft breath. "Well, on the bright side, we know angel blade trumps vampire now. That could make future cases a little easier." 

"And you managed to take down seven vampires, including their leader, all by yourself?" Dean knew the answer but needed to know whether Sam was going to be honest this time. If he tried to hide it Dean was going to clock him one, sigil or not. He was vaguely aware of the angel's eyes on him and wondered if he could tell what he was thinking. He balled his hand into a fist.

"Not exactly." _It's a start,_ Dean thought. Sam raised his gaze to meet his brother, and for a heartwrenching moment Dean saw actual fear play across his features before they settled into some semblence of control. "The sigil, it...." He cut the sentence off, turning his head and quirking his brows. Even now it seemed he wasn't totally sure what had happened. "Dean, I think it saved my life." He raised a hand and hovered it over the mark by his ear, but seemed unwilling to touch it. Dean's chest twisted. 

"And why would it do that?"

"I dunno, but...Dean." Sam said, voice suddenly quiet. Dean's gaze flew to his face, which looked a lot stiffer than it had a moment ago. He swallowed nervously, eyes pinned to Sam's; Sam held his gaze as he spoke. "I took four of them out, but I--I hesitated and the rest of them, they...they pinned me. That's what Cass heard." Sam took a shaky breath and lowered his gaze slowly until his eyes focused on the mud-flecks on Dean's boots. "Dean, their leader, he--he ripped my throat out." He rubbed his throat yet again, and Dean noticed he lingered along his left jugular. "I think he killed me." 

"Sam." The word was almost pleading, Dean's brows knit violently with concern. 

"Let me finish," Sam said, swallowing again. Dean watched his adams apple bob nervously, clearly as unnerved by the prospect of his almost death as Dean was. Dean wanted to reach for him, touch him, prove one more time that Sam was indeed alive. Instead he balled his fist even tighter, lips pressed together to keep from interrupting. Sam continued, unaware of his internal conflict. "When I was dying, the sigil started....charging." It almost sounded more like a question. "Then it congregated here," he said, pointing to his chest right above his heart, "and exploded. When it was done....I was the only survivor." Sam finished, eyebrows shifting unsteadily.

"Well, that's one thing I won't complain about." Dean said with what he meant to be enthusiasm, running a hand over his stubbly jaw. "Maybe it was just a safeguard. You know, like some sick way to make sure the curse can get you first?"

"Let's hope that's all this is," Sam said, taking a shaky breath. After a moment of silence, Sam cleared his throat. "Actually, Dean, that's.....not all." And with that Sam had his undivided attention. Sam wondered if those green eyes had managed to drill a hole in his face yet. It itched uncomfortably and he fought the urge to scratch, shutting his eyes and focusing on the next few words. "Dean, I think I heard her."

"Heard who?" There was only one answer he could think of, and he didn't like it. 

Sam confirmed it. "Endria." 

Dean returned his gaze to the angel, who was leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. "Explain."

Castiel didn't remove his gaze from the mark, as if this new bit of information required a closer look at it. "It's....possible a sliver of her soul might...radiate thoughts she might have had while alive. There's never been a case so closely observed before. And this technique has never been paired with a sigil before, as far as I'm aware." 

"Great." Dean said, letting out a tight laugh that made Sam flinch. 

"I'm sorry, Dean." The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. Dean's gaze flew back to his face, as if expecting more bad news on top of everything else. When he took in Sam's expression he cursed inwardly, realizing belatedly that he had been talking as if this whole thing was Sam's fault. And Sam didn't need that, especially when he was already dealing with a full-blown curse and a recent near-death experience. His expression softened, and he gave Sam the same tender look Castiel suspected he didn't even know he made. 

"It's okay, Sammy. It's not your fault. We'll figure this out." He reached out and awkwardly patted Sam on the shoulder; Sam's eyebrows bent in relief. Dean removed his hand quickly. Was it just him, or had Sam just leaned into it? The gentle hazel eyes that stared back at him revealed nothing, holding his gaze steadily and burning with trust. 

"I know." His voice sounded rougher than normal. Dean sniffed, nodding as he averted his gaze. Sam stood, much steadier now that he had gotten a decent chunk of rest. _Or is it because Dean is back?_ He thought briefly. If so, he'd never admit that out loud. Serious or not, that was something Dean would definitely mock him for. If that wouldn't earn him the term damsel he wasn't sure what else would. 

He turned to his brother and the angel, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "I'm gross, so I'm gonna take a shower. We can keep talking about this afterward, okay?" Dean opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but shut it quickly when he thought back to that look he had seen in Sam's eyes just after he had woken. It was strange enough for Sam to eat eggs, much less forgo all manners and wolf them down like that. And that look in his eyes....it left a bad taste in his mouth. He wondered if Cass had noticed something too. 

Sam slipped into the bathroom with a relieved sigh. While he knew it was out of brotherly concern, the way Dean had been grilling him was exhausting. He was tired of watching blame fly in every direction when it wasn't actually anyone's fault. But if it meant Dean stopped aiming it all at himself, Sam would take it. He took in his reflection in the mirror, thankful to see that he hadn't gotten worse since the run-in with the vampires. Most of his strength had returned, and the sharp pain that had been resonating from the mark had dulled. He pulled at the buttons on his shirt, ready to work some kinks out of his stiff muscles with a hot shower. 

"He doesn't seem to be acting strange," Castiel said to Dean's back as the older brother stared at the bathroom door. 

"Not now, he's not. But you can't tell me that little episode with breakfast was normal." He rubbed his neck with a sigh. "It just...it didn't feel right."

"Unless it happens again, there's not much we can do." Dean didn't want to admit it, but Castiel was right. Right now Sam was normal; unless that changed all Dean could do is act as normal as possible himself. It wasn't like he could pull out a book and read up on the latest issue of 'what wants to kill you today.'

"Dean!" Sam's shout rang out from the bathroom.

Dean flew to the bathroom door, and a shocked looking Sam appeared on the other side, shirt gripped tightly in his hand. "Sam?" Dean said, taking in his brother's wide-eyed stare. Sam just silently twisted, pointing emphatically at the sigil on his shoulder. In the center sat a six inch circle of purple marks, the same thin tendrils that had made up the mark before Dean had disappeared. Dean realized that was the spot he had grabbed Sam when he had pulled him off the floor. "What the hell?" He said, gaze flicking up to meet his brother's, equally shocked. 

"No idea." Sam said breathlessly. He let out a hopeful breath. Curious, Dean reached out and planted a hand on Sam's neck. Sam hissed sharply, shrinking away from Dean's fingers as if they burned with fire. The thick black lines remained, and Dean let out a small sigh of disappointment. Sam was eyeing him warily, hand hovering over the spot Dean had just touched. "What are you doing?" 

"Just testing a theory." He slunk back to the motel bed, and with a confused huff Sam closed the bathroom door.


	35. Chapter 35

“This is stupid,” Sam whispered to no one in particular. He had been staring at the same patch of peeling paint on the ceiling for the last three hours, apparently recharged enough from the full day of sleep the previous day that even the thought of shutting his eyes made his skin crawl. But Dean had insisted they take a day and night for R&R before doing anything else. He could see that the last case and the developments with Sam’s sigil bothered Dean more than he was letting on, so Sam had begrudgingly agreed. Across from him on the fold out sofa, Dean snored quietly. Castiel was somewhere outside, having offered to leave while they slept. The angel knew how much his perpetual wakefulness bothered Dean. Neither one of them would have been able to sleep if he had remained in the small motel room. Sam flopped around on the mattress, settling on his side and pulling out his phone; he figured that even fruitless research would be more productive than pretending to sleep, and with the dead witch’s voice in his head he had some new ways to approach the problem. 

Twenty minutes later, Sam found himself cursing the tiny phone screen. Dean had brought him the phone Sam had purchased to replace his last one, and while it had all the basics covered, it definitely wasn’t ideal for detailed research. But Sam knew better than to get up and borrow Dean’s laptop. He could already hear the gong of that damn porn site his brother seemed to favor, and the blinding blue light that would illuminate the room. If Dean wanted Sam to get some rest, Sam would pretend to rest. Even if that meant staring at a three by two inch screen for six more hours. He sighed and continued scrolling through the article he had found on evolving spell-work. 

The article had nothing to do with sigils, soul magic, or dead witches; Sam hoped that returning to the basics would help him find something even remotely helpful. They only knew what Cass had told them about soul magic, and Sam was frustrated that none of that information seemed to be in any kind of database, including the Men of Letters. He was sure that Sinclair would have been able to tell them anything they needed, but the brief search they had done in his mansion after their first encounter with the man had come up empty of any kind of literature, save a couple of grimoires they had decided were better burned than used. He wondered briefly if those books would have contained any answers. 

_Too late now_ , the witch’s voice whispered with a giggle. 

Sam froze. While Cass’s explanation of soul echoes had calmed Dean down, Sam realized that he didn’t believe that for a second. On several occasions, she had commented on things that were actually happening. And just now, she had responded to his own unvoiced thoughts. An unwelcome feeling stirred in his stomach, a brief wave of panic as he began to consider other possibilities. 

He opened a new web page and started a new search: “witch possession.” He curled his broad shoulders even tighter around the phone screen. Even though Dean’s breaths were still deep and slow, and Castiel was not here to read over his shoulder, he felt guilty that he hadn’t told either of them just how…involved the voice in his head was. Until he could confirm his theory, he would let the two of them hold onto the hope that it was nothing more than echoes. He kept at it for an hour, flipping through links, local articles from various newspapers both in the states and abroad, folklore and historic libraries, and even the occasional occult forum. What he wanted to do was haul Bobby’s journal out of the Impala’s trunk, but feared that emerging from the motel would alert both Dean and Cass to his sleeplessness and his building nerves. He made a mental note to check it out later. Finally, thoroughly frustrated, he gave up and set his phone aside, returning his gaze to the paint on the ceiling. _Four more hours of this_ , he thought with a soft sigh. _Maybe I could get away with just two_.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sam was about to fly out of bed when the door to the motel room opened. He rested his hand on the knife beneath his pillow out of habit, releasing it when he saw the familiar shape of Castiel. Sam knew the sound of the door would wake his brother and decided he would pretend to wake just after him. Even if he hadn’t technically slept, he had still “rested” for the night. And if that would help ease some of the tension in Dean’s shoulders, maybe allow him a smile or two, a dumb joke, then Sam would make sure it happened. Once Dean had shifted into a sitting position, talking quietly with Cass, Sam let out an exaggerated groan and sat up. Even in the dim light of the room, he saw Dean’s shoulders relax slightly. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to ruin it later. Until he could look through Bobby’s journal, he couldn’t be sure about anything. 

“Morning,” Sam grunted, pitching his voice lower to sound like he had just woken. He sat up and stretched, reaching over to turn the lamp in the corner on to better illuminate the room. 

“Sleep well?” Dean asked, pulling both arms above his head as he shuffled toward the bathroom. Sam nodded, offering a large yawn in response. He tried to ignore Castiel’s stare. The angel was usually oblivious, but had become surprisingly good at seeing straight through Winchester bravado. Sam didn’t want him tipping his brother off before it was time. 

Once they were all dressed and packed, the three headed to a local diner for breakfast. Dean had offered to brave a local café in case something there sounded better, but the thought of eggs and sausage sounded better than it usually did. Sam wondered if he had imagined the flash of concern in his brother’s eyes when he said as much. “What?” Sam asked, finding himself scrutinized from the driver’s seat. 

“Nothing,” Dean said, returning his gaze to the road. “Just isn’t your usual, that’s all.” Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was glad he hadn’t said anything more about the voice; it seemed Dean was doing all he could to find more reasons to worry. If a craving for eggs and sausage was a reason to worry, Dean was going to make a mess of his nerves. 

“I dunno,” Sam offered casually, “I guess I’m just still recovering? I feel much better already.” That was true. The strain of the latest sigil growth had almost completely faded. While the lines still stood thick and stark against his skin, the pain had almost subsided. He still wasn’t willing to touch it, but clothing and the fabric of the bedsheets didn’t bother it at all. His strength was back to normal, as was his mental acuity. There was no longer a cloud of emotion smothering every thought. As the hours had passed after Dean’s return, he had felt it shrink bit by bit. Which meant he knew that the latest development also had something to do with Dean, though he wasn’t sure exactly what. It seemed that rather than being something external, like Dean’s touch, it hit much closer to home. It had to do with what he thought, or felt, about his brother. He frowned, wondering just what memory had made Endria decide on a trigger. He had scoured his memories over and over again to no avail. 

It seemed Dean had also decided that it wasn’t touch causing the mark to flare up; twice already this morning he had touched him, tentatively the first time when he had rested a hand on his shoulder, and more confidently the second time when he had thumped Sam on the back with some less-than-smart remark, still careful enough to avoid his left side. Sam found he was more aware of his touch after the week of his brother’s self-enforced “no touch” rule. It had taken quite a bit of restraint not to jump at the sudden contact. It helped that Dean seemed to be watching him for a reaction. He wanted to prove to Dean once and for all that it wasn’t his touch that was causing the problem. And while there was still a thoughtfulness in Dean’s gaze, he had largely returned to normal. 

They sat down in a rubber booth near the door, Sam wincing at the squeak of the seat against his pants. He noticed Dean still, and quickly inhaled and commented on how good the food smelled. And it did; the wafting scent of butter and the faint sizzling of meat in the kitchen made his stomach growl appreciatively. He wondered if this was how Dean usually felt when he came to places like these. Dean relaxed, and Sam fought the urge to blow out an annoyed breath. If Dean kept watching him like he was a pile of broken egg shells, he was going to lose it. While clearly the sigil was serious business, Dean didn’t need to be killing himself over it too. 

To make matters worse, Castiel seemed to be watching him just as closely. He felt like a museum piece. He bit back a sharp comment; losing his temper wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. He had to acknowledge that barely 48 hours ago he had gone missing on a mountain and mysteriously woken up in bad shape in an unknown motel room. He still didn’t know how he had gotten from point A to point B, and had to recognize, however grudgingly, that some of Dean’s worries were not unfounded. A chesty waitress flaunted into view, clearly pleased to be serving a table of attractive men instead of the usual greasy trucker fare that seemed to fill the place. Dean’s lady-killer grin slid into place automatically, and Sam let out a huff of resignation. Apparently even after being taken for a love joyride, his appetites hadn’t even dipped. “What can I get you boys?” She nearly giggled, eyes settling on the older brother. 

“I’ll have the special, sweetheart,” Dean said, eyes flicking up and down her form. “Unless you have any…personal recommendations?” She eyed him appraisingly before shifting her eyes to the angel. Apparently she was going to check out all the goods before making a purchase. Sam smiled as the grin on Dean’s face faltered slightly. He wasn’t used to being passed over, even temporarily. 

“Coffee,” Castiel said without even looking up from the menu. He had no interest in being set up by the brothers, no matter their intentions. The waitress gave a faint huff of annoyance before shifting her gaze to Sam. 

Sam wasn’t even going to try; he knew how badly he flirted. He just wanted his breakfast and to get back onto the road. So when his mouth slipped into an easy grin, he felt a spark of surprise. He felt his eyes focus sharply on hers, and watched with muted satisfaction as her breath hitched slightly. “A-and what can I get for you?” she said, her easygoing tone shifting to one of giddy nerves. Sam was vaguely aware that all the eyes at the table were now on him. 

“Any suggestions?” He said simply, maintaining eye contact. Simply looking at someone wasn’t enough to flirt. So why was she suddenly so excitable? She gave an awkward laugh, one Sam realized was painfully similar to his own whenever he usually tried to flirt. Completely thrown off, she managed to mumble something about eggs and bacon. Sam’s smile widened, flashing her a hint of teeth. His tone was amused when he responded with, “That sounds perfect. But I prefer sausage.” 

“Me too,” She said breathlessly, which drew Dean’s incredulous gaze and a low chuckle from Sam. 

“…and a coffee,” He finished, passing his menu to the waitress, who took it with shaking fingers. She watched him as she grabbed the other menus from the table, and glanced over her shoulder twice as she made her way to the counter with their order. The moment she slipped out of view, Sam returned his gaze to his companions, suddenly uncomfortable at the weight of their stares. 

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, mouth hanging slightly open as he studied his brother from across the table. 

“What?” Sam said defensively, gaze shifting between Dean and Castiel. “I was just ordering.” He reached for the water the waitress had left and took a sip, glad to have a reason to look away. 

“I’ve never seen you order like that in my life, Sammy,” Dean replied, stabbing his straw further into his water glass. “It was like you were possessed by George friggin’ Clooney; just plain creepy.” He pretended to shudder. While his tone was light and playful, Sam felt a wave of annoyance flare.

“Or maybe you’re just pissed that our waitress passed you over for once.” He sighed, glaring at his brother from across the table. “You know, Dean, not everyone digs that cheesy bad-boy routine; maybe you just aren’t her type.” 

Dean’s lips puckered into what almost looked like a pout, and he threw Sam a matching glare as he spit back, “No need to be a bitch about it; I was just joking.” 

“Well it wasn’t funny.” Sam kicked himself inwardly even as the words slipped out. He knew Dean didn’t deserve his lashing out, but he didn’t need Dean thinking yet another thing was wrong with him. Dean just sniffed and focused on the table before shifting pointedly in his chair and striking up a conversation with the bewildered looking angel beside him. He continued like that for the rest of the meal, only returning his gaze to his brother when the waitress checked in with them. Dean’s pointed stare made him uncomfortable; Sam made a point not to look at her, mumbling his responses until eventually she picked up the hint, leaving him with a wistfully wrinkled napkin with a messy scrawl of digits crumpled inside. Not wanting to seem like a total dick, he slipped it into his pocket, making a note to toss it as soon as he made it out the front door. 

Sam thought the uncomfortable silence would continue into the car, but it seemed that after snubbing Sam for an hour at breakfast Dean had largely recovered; but even though he had recovered his light tone, he never returned to the subject of the waitress. For that, Sam was thankful. He thought briefly about the thick leather journal stashed in the trunk; he hoped he’d be able to get his hands on it soon. All this waiting had him on edge.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, I know updates have been coming a little slower recently; now that I'm back from vacation I don't have as much time to write and edit, and as things are starting to come together I need to spend more time writing and editing than before! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback so far! I'm really excited that this story has done as well as it has. And in case you all are feeling like some pieces don't quite fit yet, don't worry; hopefully by the end everything will make sense! As an added bonus, know that I'm going to take this whole work once it is finished and edit it all together so there won't be any more questions.

_Sam is hiding something,_ Dean thought as he eyed his brother from across the room. The three of them had gone back to the bunker at Sam’s request. Why Sam suddenly wanted to take it easy after practically forcing his way into the last few hunts, Dean had no idea. But if Sam was going to take recovering seriously, then who was Dean to deny him that? He had to admit that he himself needed a little time to de-stress; since the incident at breakfast, Sam had been particularly testy. And Dean had to admit that part of that was probably his fault. He couldn’t help analyzing each of Sam’s actions, not after that brief scare in the motel room and that weird display in the diner. Even if Sam couldn’t tell something was wrong, Dean could. Something was off about his little brother, and the thought of it made his chest tighten. 

It didn’t help that Sam had admitted to hearing the witch’s voice in his head, either. While Castiel seemed to think it was just a scrap of consciousness left over from the soul-spell, Dean wondered if writing it off as such was a good idea. He wanted to believe it, but something in his gut told him that there was probably more going on than Sam was letting on. 

Sam sat alone at one of the tables in the library, face buried in his laptop as he nursed what was probably his third cup of coffee, based on the speed of his left leg as it bounced up and down under the desk. Dean eyed him silently from the doorway, thankful that at the very least he seemed to be telling the truth about feeling back to full strength. He briefly remembered Sam during the trials; the image of Sam’s sallow cheekbones and bony shoulders sent cold waves of fear through him even now, when it was nothing more than a distant memory. Compared to the Sam in front of him, who could probably hold his own against Dean in a fight, it was like looking at night and day. Aware of his brother’s presence behind him, Sam turned and lifted a brow in silent question, prompting a hasty smile from Dean. 

“Work or pleasure?” He asked Sam as he sauntered into the room, grin widening at the characteristic eye-roll his brother always gave him when he made a bad joke. At least right now, Sammy was entirely himself. Sam slid the laptop to the side, revealing a news article concerning a death a couple states over. Dean read through the headline briefly, then glanced back at Sam. “Is it our kind of thing, you think?” 

Sam huffed. “I don’t know. At first read, it doesn’t seem like it, but the details just seem…off.” He pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the screen. “Time of death seems shady. Don’t know if it’s just a fudged report or if there’s something more going on here.” Sam pinched his lips in thought, as if flexing his face muscles might squeeze a new angle out of the article in front of him. 

“We could call, see if we can’t get any info over the phone?” Dean offered. He didn’t like the thought of driving for six hours to chase another weak lead, especially with the tension that seemed to stretch between the three of them when they were on the road for more than a few minutes. The space of the bunker had at least allowed them to seek their own separate corners in their down time. 

“Already tried that. They wouldn’t talk, insisted on case confidentiality. We’re gonna have to flash a badge if we want to know anything.” Sam sighed, running a hand across the back of his neck, which had stiffened from sitting still for so long. Dean stifled a groan. So much for skipping the car ride. Sam looked up, scanning the room. “Hey, where’s Cass?”

“Where do you think? Back at the Netflix, I’m sure. Remind me why we ever let him know about it? The dude’s like a teenage girl with that stuff.” 

Sam snorted. “At least it’s better than letting him stare at the walls all night.” His memories from his soulless days reminded him just how dull it was to be stuck awake with nothing to do; it helped that he had had no emotions during that period; if he could have felt boredom or annoyance, it would have been much worse. 

“Is it?” Dean didn’t look so sure. 

“It is nice to have something to occupy the brain.” Castiel offered helpfully from the entryway. 

“Dude, that shit doesn’t even require a brain. If anything it just turns it to soup.” Dean said with a disdainful look. Castiel opened his mouth, but closed it before he could say something the brothers might consider foolish. His confusion sat heavily on his face as Sam barely managed to disguise a second snort. He tried to take a sip of coffee, only to realize he had finished yet another cup without even noticing. He was feeling a little tired, but wanted to make sure he was the last one up. That was the only way he was going to get to the trunk of the car without setting off any alarm bells in his brother’s head. Then, as long as he had some reason to deflect the angel’s suspicions, he could check on his newest theory in relative peace. 

He stood and snatched his cup off the table. “I’m gonna go make some more coffee; want me to grab you anything?” He hoped Dean wouldn’t ask for coffee too. 

Instead Dean walked over to him and plucked the cup out of his hand. Sam started at the faint sensation of his brother’s hand brushing over his fingers. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m gonna bring you a beer. Or water. But the last thing you need is more caffeine.” He pointed to Sam’s chair with a silent command. Sam sighed and sank back into it, watching his brother’s retreating form as he made his way to the kitchen. 

“How are you feeling, Sam?” The angel asked as soon as the older brother’s back disappeared from view. Sam marveled briefly at the timing; it seemed Cass had finally figured out he was more likely to get something closer to the truth when Dean wasn’t within earshot. He worked to keep the impressed expression from his face. 

“Better than I was.” That was true. Unconfirmed fears aside, physically he was almost back to normal. “I know I need to rest, make sure everything is good, but it’s hard to sit still.” Also true, though he worked to keep it as vague as possible. The angel nodded slowly, but his face showed that he expected more than that. Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, working to keep a natural expression as he shifted his attention back to the computer screen. Blue eyes bored into him for a few more seconds before following his gaze to the screen. 

“This is the case you two were speaking about earlier?” He frowned at the screen, leaning in closer to read the article in question. Sam didn’t have room to lean back, and suddenly found his personal space bubble significantly reduced. He wrinkled his nose in brief discomfort, turning his head away in an attempt to gain some space back. Instead he found his brother smirking at him from the doorway, two beers in hand. Sam widened his eyes at him, begging silently for help. Instead of grabbing the computer, Castiel had simply leaned almost directly in front of Sam. Dean’s grin widened, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. Sam glared briefly before bracing his lips and using his hand to slide the computer slowly in the angel’s direction. Cass gave him a brief glance, took in his expression, and obligingly shifted away, taking the laptop the rest of the way with him. 

Dean took that as his cue, sauntering in and setting the second beer in front of Sam. Sam popped it open and took a relieved swig as he watched his older brother plop down in the chair across from him. They sat there quietly for a moment, Dean simply relishing the remnants of discomfort on Sam’s face. After what seemed like an eternity Castiel spoke. 

“I can go.” Both of the brothers looked at him in surprise. 

“Go where?” Dean said, exchanging a look with Sam before looking at Cass. 

Castiel just looked at him blankly. “To Iowa. To check out the body.” He slid the computer back in front of Sam. Sam took it, still looking at the angel. He couldn’t help but feel that there was too much of a jump between his previous questions and his current offer, which might mean they weren’t unrelated. He silently reviewed the details of the possible case, wondering if there was other evidence of a case present that he had somehow passed over. He couldn’t come up with anything. Still, the angel leaving would make checking Bobby’s journal that much easier. Once Dean was asleep Sam could read it without worry. 

Dean didn’t pick up on his brother’s train of thought. “You sure?” He asked the angel, wondering if Sam had said something while he was gone that had made the angel feel unwelcome. 

Castiel just nodded, his expression giving little information. “I can call if I find something. You two take a day to relax.” Apparently assuming that had decided it, he stood and headed for the door. Sam half expected Dean to say something, but the older brother simply watched him go, raising his eyebrows and waving in mock salute as the angel nodded at them once more from the door. 

“Ooookay,” He said, turning and giving Sam a bewildered look, “What was up with him?” 

Sam’s expression matched his brother’s. “No clue.” After a moment, Dean simply shrugged. He hadn’t wanted to make the drive on a weak lead, and now he didn’t have to. It’s not like he had ever been able to predict the angel’s behavior before. Why would he think that had changed? He and Sam sat in companionable silence, Sam tapping away at his computer as Dean sipped casually on his beer, feet propped on the chair just to Sam’s left under the table. Despite diluting the coffee with beer, Sam was still on edge, almost fidgeting in front of his computer. Dean knew that staring at him would only make Sam uncomfortable, so he opted to watch him out of his periphery instead, pretending to read the sweaty label stuck to the amber bottle. When he did occasionally glance at his brother, Sam offered up brief awkward smiles, the ones Dean had grown up seeing. It was only when Sam was totally relaxed that he smiled naturally; Dean was happy to be one of the people who could draw that out of him. That was part of why he always made such terrible jokes. Normally Sam would just roll his eyes but occasionally, if Dean could catch him off guard Sam’s face would split into a heart-warming grin. 

The smile at the diner was something Dean had never seen before. It had been cold and calculating, manipulative. And, he admitted with a thick swallow, surprisingly hot. He wasn’t surprised the waitress had virtually rolled over for him; he wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t do the same, had the look been turned on him. Or would he have simply stepped up to the challenge? He didn’t know. 

Then Dean realized who he was thinking about. He shook his head in silent admonishment and forced himself to his feet. He stretched dramatically and threw Sam an easy grin. “I’m beat, man. Catch you in the morning.” He made his way back to the hall, only glancing back at his brother to throw a passing comment: “Good luck killing that coffee buzz, Sammy.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these last couple of chapters have been slow. I'll be picking up the pace soon!

Sam winced at the dry rasp of his fingers on the worn pages as he opened the book on the Impala’s hood, even though he knew Dean was fast asleep in his room on the other side of the bunker. He knew that if his research happened to turn something up, Dean would be livid that Sam had once again hidden his problems from him. Sam knew the right thing would have been to tell him the moment he had even suspected the possibility. But the relaxation that had slowly begun to return to Dean’s shoulders had kept his mouth shut. Sam hoped to debunk his theory so that Dean never even had to know it was a possibility. Castiel had followed the same logic when he had debunked the “soul infection” theory; any burden he could spare Dean, he would. He knew Dean would do anything for him, but he also knew how much of a burden he had been on his brother in the past. Irrational though it was, Sam constantly feared that one day his problems would become too much to bear and Dean would simply reject him. Sam needed Dean. He couldn’t risk losing him. 

With great effort, Sam pulled himself out of his thoughts and back to the task at hand. Dean rarely slept more than six hours in one night, and Sam had waited for two hours after he had gone to bed just to be sure he was asleep. Reading by the Impala gave him a chance to pitch the journal back in the car in case Dean happened to wake up early and come searching for him. He could claim he was going to clean the guns, or replenish the holy water. With an entire arsenal at his fingertips, he had any number of excuses to throw his brother off the scent. Sam fingered through the pages as quietly as he could, the only sounds in the garage the creak of the book’s spine and the hiss of sliding pages. 

Bobby had been a lot of things, but organized definitely hadn’t been one of them; information dotted his journal in spurts of sloppy script. While he had tried to categorize information, when space on a page had run out he had simply started a new one and earmarked it in that strange way of his so that he could return to it with ease. When the first two pages on witches came up empty, Sam let out a hopeful breath. Maybe he was just being paranoid. A witch wasn’t like a spirit or a demon, or even an angel. They had a physical form, and while astral projection was a skill many witches had, Sam and Dean had never encountered a case where the disembodied witch had entered another body, much less taken control of it. The one experience Sam had with astral projection had simply been a birds-eye view, taking in the details but not the thoughts or feelings of the people around them. 

Page three hit a little closer to home, mentioning spells Bobby had seen performed by and on other witches in his saturated history with them throughout his hunting career. Sam was tempted to let out a low whistle of admiration. In most cases, Bobby’s research on the subject had taken an almost obsessive turn. He had taken vague observations, and managed to research all the way to the specific spell, including the spell’s origin, as well as the ingredients and incantations required to complete it. Sam wondered if Bobby had even tried some of them, based on the smudges of suspicious ingredients on the edges of the page. 

Page four was more of the same. Sam skimmed quickly not wanting to waste time on superfluous information. He was about to skip to the next one when his gaze settled on the word he had been dreading: “possession.” Sam swallowed thickly. He had an absurd thought, his own behavior reminding him of hypochondriacs and medical journals. Was he simply imagining symptoms and turning them into bigger problems? A feeling in the back of his stomach told him he wasn’t. 

Bobby began by recounting the case in which he had encountered the spell. It had been in his early days with Rufus; a local kid had killed his parents. The newspaper clipping Bobby had used as a bookmark still clung to the page, describing what seemed like the force of an explosion the cause of death on the bodies, despite the utter lack of burns or evidence of explosive material on site. The older hunter pair had interviewed the kid, and had initially suspected demon possession. Sam had trouble deciphering the crooked script, but it seemed like the presence of a hex bag on site had killed that theory quickly. The kid had no memory of making it, and through some old fashioned deduction Bobby had traced an old grudge back to an ancient woman in town. Evidence of the spell, which was apparently similar to a powerful scrying spell, lay scattered around the apartment. 

Sam let out a breath; while this proved that witch possession was possible, none of the listed ingredients or incantations had occurred when Endria had inflicted the mark. He turned the page, wondering if Bobby had recorded any other instances of witch possession. But the sound of a door banging down the hall cut him short. He dog-eared the page so that it would be easier to find and stuffed the journal back in its spot in the back of the Impala’s trunk, wrapped in an old jacket. He had just enough time to grab the rosary and an empty plastic jug before Dean entered, eyebrows knit in concern. Sam hadn’t heard him shout, but based on the expression he wore he had done so several times. Sam held up his supplies as he made his way forward, offering a brief apology about being lost in his thoughts, which was largely true. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, clearly not liking the whole ‘lost in thought’ excuse. Sam wanted to sigh. This was exactly why he hadn’t told Dean about his worries. After all of their past experiences, Dean had become a master at inventing problems out of very little. Sam didn’t blame him. He’d done everything from drink demon blood to try to remain soulless by killing Bobby. He’d gone crazy, seen Lucifer, failed to close the gates of hell….yeah, he had a long history of failing his brother. He hoped that this time it would be different. He hoped that he could fix it before things went completely sideways. 

“I’m good.” Sam replied, giving what he hoped was an exasperated look. He made sure not to glance back at the trunk as he made his way to the nearest sink. 

“Have you even slept yet?” Dean asked, stifling a yawn. Had he woken up just to check on him? Sam shook his head sheepishly, gesturing with the plastic jug he was carrying. 

“Heading there soon. Gonna finish this first.” Dean pursed his lips noncommittally. He didn’t like the answer, but knew it was silly to argue with it. Sam watched him as he yawned yet again. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Slept yet.” Sam was doubtful. Dean threw him a saucy grin and shook his head. 

“Nope. I was reading.” Sam didn’t have to ask what. He just groaned at Dean’s oversharing as he turned on the faucet, filling the jug. 

“Well, let me finish this, and then we can both go to sleep, for real this time.” While he was tempted to go and continue his reading, he doubted Dean would leave him alone long enough to learn anything else useful. He felt better about everything after this last round of reading. While he needed to check the rest of his notes to be sure, the dissimilarities alone calmed his nerves immeasurably. He threw Dean a brief smile, enjoying his mindless chatter. He was so glad to have Dean in his life. All misfortunes aside, Dean was the greatest blessing he had ever received. He just hoped that he’d be able to pay him back someday.


	38. Chapter 38

Sam could tell Dean was antsy for some action; they had only gotten back to the bunker three days ago, and already Dean had made two beer runs, two dinner runs, and was now talking about heading out to a local bar for the night. He had even called Cass to check up on the case he was working in Iowa, which so far had turned up next to nothing. Sam knew that sitting still had never been Dean’s forte. Even when they had been stuck with their hands completely tied, Dean had found things to do, or fix, to fill the empty space. Sam had to admit that he was feeling the same restlessness. But he knew that the more he acted like he was resting, the better Dean’s mood became. So while Dean remained a paradox of fidgeting nerves and fragile optimism, Sam did his best to sit still. 

He had to admit it was uncomfortable being the focal point of Dean’s boundless energy; too many times he had caught Dean openly watching him, either from doorways or from directly across the table while he sipped his beer. And there was something in his look that Sam wasn’t sure he’d seen before, though like most things about his brother it still felt deceptively familiar. He didn’t know what to make of the new intensity in Dean’s gaze. He wondered if Dean was even aware of it. Sam found himself constantly worrying that his expression would somehow give his secrets away under Dean’s constant scrutiny. It was all he could do not to clear his throat awkwardly and fidget in his seat. 

Dean left for the bar, and although Sam had declined to come along, he felt a wave of disappointment as he heard the Impala roar out of the garage. Although he had no idea why, some part of him had hoped that Dean would stay, awkward stares and all. Now the bunker just seemed empty and lonely, and Sam found his attention wandering from his computer screen, where he had been trying to find another record of the spell he had read about in Bobby’s journal. When he grew bored of that he went back over the notes on Sinclair and his studies with the witch, trying to see if with recent developments he could glean any further information from them. Rather than focusing on the spell work which had clearly been over Henry’s head and had therefore rendered his notes virtually useless on the subject, Sam found himself drawn to the passage on the witch herself. Sinclair had introduced her to Henry in very abstract terms, merely describing her as a willing and slightly secretive volunteer from the Grand Coven in Europe. It seemed she knew quite a lot about the coven itself; a separate section of his notes had been overtaken with history and trivia she had shared while assisting with Sinclair’s research. He had also recorded bits of conversation Sinclair had probably meant to keep secret, like a doubtful promise of amnesty from the Men of Letters and free access to some of their restricted spell tomes. 

Sam wondered over some of the little details he had discovered. Could there be more information here than he had initially thought? But after a few more minutes of skimming, he found his focus faltering once again. He stood and stretched before wandering aimlessly through the bunker, looking for something that might cut the silence and distract him from the emptiness of the massive concrete labyrinth. He was surprised at himself; usually when Dean was as clingy as he had been, Sam was thrilled to have some time to himself. In fact, Sam usually liked being by himself in general; he found the occasional silence to be soothing. But tonight, he found that the sudden space was overrated. 

He came to a stop in front of Dean’s door, and after a moment of hesitation made his way to the stereo in the corner. He flipped the cool metal switch and flinched as Bob Seger’s “Katmandu” blasted out of the machine; he reached to turn down the volume and paused. After another moment of thought he left it playing, making his way to his room down the hall, where the sound of Dean’s music was a soft hum through the walls. He didn’t know why, but he found the sound comforting. He laughed ruefully at how pathetic he was acting and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes and absorbing the familiar sound. 

___________________________________________________________-

He woke to a knock at his door. Blinking blearily, he glanced at the clock on his night stand. It was just barely midnight; the music still throbbed through the wall, a song he faintly recognized but couldn’t quite place. The lights in his room were still on. He realized he must have dozed off, and felt a wave of embarrassment as he noticed Dean’s silhouette in his doorway. He had propped himself comfortably against the doorframe, leaning with his head cocked lightly to the side the way he did whenever he was in a teasing mood. A tender smirk rested on his lips. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to touch other people’s things?” He gestured in the direction of his room with his head, smile widening slightly. Sam colored, sitting up and turning his face away in an attempt to hide his growing mortification. How pathetic must this look? He tried to think of a way to talk himself out of the teasing he knew was coming his way. Dean didn’t wait for a response, instead leaping right into it. “I mean, if you were going to miss me this much, you should have just come along.” 

“Oh, and what, just sat and watched as you scored a hookup for the night?” Sam worked to keep his tone light; the thought of watching Dean flirt sounded even more uncomfortable than it usually did, and Sam had wanted to avoid causing another fight like the one in the diner. “No thanks.”

Dean sighed, shaking his head dramatically as he shrugged. “I know you’re jealous, Sammy, but that’s no reason to turn yourself into a hermit who sneaks into people’s rooms and plays with their stuff ‘cuz they’re lonely.” His eyebrows dipped slightly. “And since when did you listen to this kind of music by choice? I thought you’d have switched it to some hippy-dippy nonsense like you always do. You were listening to some of that earlier today, even.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Dean, that was Beethoven. Classical music.” 

Dean shrugged again, “Okay, so ancient hippy-dippy nonsense. What’s the difference?” Sam merely huffed in response. After a moment Dean’s mocking expression softened, and he picked his way across the room to where Sam sat on the bed. Sam looked up and saw a ghost of concern slide across his warm green eyes. “Seriously though, Sam. What’s up with the stereo?” 

Sam didn’t know how to respond. He had expected the mocking statements. He hadn’t been expecting Dean to seriously worry over it. He glanced away, looking at the army-green light that sat on his nightstand. After another moment of silence he felt the springs of the mattress shift tentatively beside him, and turned to find his brother sitting right next to him on the bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He studied Sam closely. While Sam could clearly smell the whiskey on him, his eyes were still sharp and clear, their new intensity nearly illuminating them from the inside. Sam couldn’t help clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“So why are you home so soon? Couldn’t catch anything?” Sam said, trying to change the subject. He was silently glad he had gotten bored of his earlier research. If Dean had snuck up on him and seen what he was looking for, he would have figured everything out. He fought the urge to fidget as he felt the heat radiating from Dean’s leg, which sat inches from his own. 

“Nope.” Dean said simply. He just kept looking at him steadily, and Sam wondered if he was just having fun making him uncomfortable. But his expression gave nothing away, burning quietly into the side of Sam’s face. Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at him directly. He picked a spot on the wall in front of him and focused sharply on it. 

“No, you couldn’t catch anything, or no, that’s not it?” Sam asked the wall. 

“A little of both.” Dean said, the teasing returning to his tone. Sam grunted, not sure how to respond. Unfazed, Dean continued. “I also thought my little brother might be a little lonely; so I came back to keep him company. And it seems it was a good thing, too.” Sam felt warm fingers settle on his shoulder, and automatically turned his gaze to meet his brother’s despite their proximity. “Are you sure you’re okay, Sammy?” 

And with that, Sam found the truth pressing at the back of his throat, trying to claw its way out. Dean deserved to know what was going on. Dean needed to know. And Sam realized with a jolt that in truth, he really wanted Dean to know. Keeping it quiet was eating him up inside. He had done nothing but awkwardly avoid his brother in an attempt to obscure the truth from him, and he knew that while Dean hadn’t said anything it was obvious he had noticed. He didn’t know what was bothering Sam, but could tell something was up. Sam stared steadily at his brother, trying to will the words out of his mouth. Dean smiled slightly in silent encouragement, and Sam felt his eyebrows dip with effort. He would tell him. He would tell Dean everything. All Dean had to do was ask. 

Then he noticed just how close they now sat to one another. In the midst of their silent exchange Dean must have leaned forward, reducing the space between them from a foot to mere inches. His hand still rested comfortably on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam found that the logical part of his brain, which screamed at him to widen that distance, stand up, do anything to break things up had at some point been overpowered by another feeling. It tasted familiar, burning faintly in the back of his mind; it pressed forward until it filled him and his body acted on its own. He felt his weight shift forward, saw his eyes close as a soft sensation brushed across his lips. 

 

Sam’s eyes flew open at the sound of Dean’s knuckles as they rapped firmly on the wooden doorframe. The room was dark, and after a brief self-assessment Sam was thankful it was; he rolled to the side and forced himself to sound as sleepy as possible as he grumbled at Dean to shut the door and let him sleep. His heart hammered nervously in his chest. The stereo in Dean’s room was silent, and a furtive glance at the clock told him it was just after two in the morning. After a moment he heard Dean let out a quiet sigh and saw the crack of light from the doorway shrink into nothing as the wooden latch clicked into place. Sam closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, going over monster facts in his head until he felt the warm tension subside. He felt sleep crawling back over him and drew it toward him, ready for anything to get him away from this moment, from these thoughts. 

As he drifted off, he swore that he heard Endria’s mocking question: _Did you enjoy that little present of mine, Sam?_ When he didn’t respond he heard her sigh in faked weariness. _We mustn’t lie to ourselves, my dear. There’s plenty more where that came from._


	39. Chapter 39

“What’s your problem, man?” Dean asked his brother’s retreating back through clenched teeth as he followed him down the hallway to his room. This was the third time today that Sam had taken one look at him and all but fled. It had started at breakfast, when he had tried to confront Sam about the stereo in his room, which had been blasting loudly when he had returned to the bunker late last night. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to touch other people’s things?” He had said, intending to sound teasing. Sam had flinched, thrown him the pissiest look he had seen him make in ages and stormed out, shutting himself up in his room. Dean recalled his expression with a frown. It rivaled the face he had made when he found out Dean had borrowed his toothbrush last month. Not that Dean had needed it at the time; he had just needed something to do, and cleaning his toes with his brother’s things had seemed like a really good bad idea at the time. That day, he had deserved it. But this time, he’d done nothing to deserve the cold shoulder treatment he was so clearly getting. 

Dean let out an angry breath. He was really tired of almost losing his nose to Sam’s door, and banged on the painted wood to emphasize his frustration. He bit back the period joke that rested readily on his lips and turned toward the garage, seeing that Sam clearly needed his space; or more accurately, he needed a space without Dean in it. If that meant going out for a while, Dean wasn’t going to argue. Wandering around the bunker waiting for his brother to emerge only to lock himself away again wasn’t going to do either of them any good. After a moment of thought he pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent Sam a quick text, letting him know that he was headed out for a bit. He sent him a middle finger emoji for good measure before stowing it back in his pocket. 

Once out on the road, he wasn’t sure where to go. He thought about heading back to the bar from last night, but after recalling his evening there he quickly dismissed the idea. For days he had been trying to come up with things to get Sam out of his head. He had hoped a night at the bar and a hook up would have been the perfect fix, and at first it was. The dingy little shack of a bar, his personal favorite for the cheap drinks and hot chicks with even cheaper morals, had been absolutely crawling with potential. He had picked the prettiest one of the mix, a tall, dark haired woman who looked like she had stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret ad.

“What’s a lovely woman like you doing in a place like this?” He asked, his polished brass grin fixed easily to his face. This was a better score than he had had in ages, and he would be a damn fool to let her get away. 

She shrugged. “I like to drink piss beer and listen to cheap pick-up lines.”

“Well I can get you plenty of both.” He waggled his eyebrow for good measure. She smiled and scooted slightly closer to him on her greasy bar-stool. See, if Sam could just lower his standards the tiniest bit, borrow a little bit of confidence from his older brother, he’d have a much easier time getting some. Instead he spent his days alone with books and his computer and his pissy attitude. Dean felt himself start to frown and quickly shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind. Sam was not going to ruin this for him. 

They had flirted and chatted for an hour after that, and Dean felt himself relaxing, simply enjoying the view. He was moments from going in for the kill when she had given him another coy smile, one she had favored throughout the evening. And suddenly Dean remembered that smile in the diner which was almost identical to the one he was drinking in now, and he felt a sharp stone plummet into his gut. The mental image hovered invisibly in front of his eyes, just clear enough that he couldn’t block it out. A few more half-hearted flirting attempts failed to dislodge the image, and eventually Dean had simply given up, not wanting to risk anything further with that memory still plastered in his mind. It was dangerous ground, and he had known he needed to get away from it as quickly as he could. He couldn’t remember what excuse he had given, only that her smile had quickly turned sour when she realized he was ditching her. 

Instead of returning to the bar he chose to drive for a few hours, looping around country roads and picking up some lunch at a burger joint a couple towns over. He wondered briefly if he needed to bring Sam anything before shaking his head in exasperation. There was food in the fridge, and Sam could fend for himself. If he didn’t eat then it was his own damn fault for being such a bitch today. Dean pretended the thought gave him comfort, but after another hour of driving he found himself heading for home, a greasy takeout bag rustling quietly in the passenger seat. Surely Sam had gotten over whatever had flown up his ass by now. And if not, Dean was going to make him tell him why. 

Which would have been a good plan, had Sam been there. Instead Dean found himself returning to a darkened bunker. A couple of shouts and the returning echoes quickly told him the place was empty, and Sam was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a piece of paper propped up on the library table. Anger and panic flared briefly as Dean almost jogged to the table, not even bothering to flick on the overhead lights. Where the hell had Sam disappeared to this time? He had thought that after everything they had been through, they were over this whole running away business. And yet here he stood, bunker empty, brother gone, some shitty excuse for his absence crumpled in his hand. It took considerable effort to unclench his fist and turn on the desk light to read the note. 

_Working a case. Be back soon._

Dean felt the muscles in his jaw clench as he glared at the words on the page. What in the holy hell was eating Sam up so badly that he had decided to skip town without so much as a phone call? There was no way Dean had done something to piss him off that much. And what about their “no hunting alone” rule? Sam was the one who had MADE that rule, so what the hell gave him the right to break it now? Dean’s earlier calm was immediately shattered. Fighting the tinge of red that was creeping slowly into his vision, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket, jamming his thumb on the call button. He held his breath as the phone rang, trying to school his emotions back to a quiet simmer. Then Sam’s shitty automated voicemail chimed in. “Dammit, Sam, where in the hell are you? You’re walking around wearing a magical time bomb for Christ’s sake! Call me. NOW.” Dean hung up and fought the urge to throw his phone. He couldn’t answer it if it was broken. Then he noticed the email icon flashing on the screen. A quick check brought him to a short, “no subject” email from his stupid escape artist of a brother that contained nothing but a city, state, and browser link. Ignoring the blue text, Dean snatched up his keys, grabbed his duffel from his room, and charged off to the Impala. He called Sam’s phone once more, grinding his teeth as the voicemail kicked in again. “I’m on my way. Just don’t do anything stupid until I get there.” Worry and rage battled for control in his chest as he slid in behind the steering wheel, running a hand comforting across the soft leather. Sam was going to get it for running off like this. He just hoped that Sam was where he said he was, and that when Dean got there he would still be in one piece.


	40. Chapter 40

Sam adjusted his sleeve with great focus as he exited the county sheriff’s office, fighting to ignore the phone vibrating in his pocket. He waited until the phone went still before letting out a breath of relief. Dean had already left a voicemail twice, and still Sam couldn’t bring himself to answer the phone. Just listening to one of Dean’s messages had rekindled shadows of thoughts in his head that walked right on the edge of an invisible line he was terrified to cross. The way anger and concern could blend effortlessly into his brother’s gruff voice made his chest ache, and the thought of being watched by those large green eyes of his made his face feel hot and stiff. Sam sighed, glaring at his phone. Why had he sent that email? 

Sam had wanted a few days to himself to reset, to focus on something other than the stupid mark on his neck and the ensuing concern it caused his brother. But shortly after leaving, Sam realized just how worried Dean would be if he left nothing but that vague little note. He could picture the muscles ticking in Dean’s jaw, the thick tension in his shoulders rendering them almost stone-like. He wasn’t sure if Dean was going to be more worried or angry, but both made Sam’s chest pulse with guilt. Dean hadn’t done anything, after all. It was Sam’s own mind that was causing the problem here, and it wasn’t fair to take it out on his brother. Sam had finally compromised with himself, sending a message upon his arrival giving Dean the basics of his case. He would simply take the few hours of freedom his sudden departure had earned him and make the best of that. Hopefully by the time his brother made it here, he could have some semblance of control over his thoughts again. Sam glanced briefly around the parking lot for onlookers before sliding into the beat-up blue sedan he had “borrowed” and driving away. He hoped no one had decided to check his license plate. 

He was tremendously lucky to have stumbled upon such a timely case. He smiled briefly as he headed down the road to the motel, glad that despite Dean’s teasing he had decided to sign up for that occult news feed. Now, whenever an article with anything strange in it cropped up, someone from the infinite recesses of the internet would find it and share it on this feed. While there were clearly some bogus ones he had to screen, there were occasionally others that had real merit. That was how he had found that vamp case in Utah. 

The article that had initially caught his attention for his current case had actually been a memorial piece about a “mass kidnapping and suspected murder,” as the newspaper had put it that had occurred on March 5th of last year. Although the details were less than clear, seven kids from several nearby towns had all disappeared without a trace from a party held on a local farm. One of the newest locals had thrown a party at her parent’s ranch house while they were off on a cruise. Because she was used to bigger city living, she had insisted on going to the high school a couple of towns over, which was the largest in the area. All of her friends from that school had been at the party. No one had known anything was wrong until the next morning when several families reported their children missing. When police arrived to investigate the scene, they reported no signs of struggle; red solo cups stood still full and the music still blaring. Two girls who admitted to being at the party but leaving early had given them little information; now that he had procured the addresses of these two “survivors,” Sam was ready to start working the case.

Further investigation at the county sheriff’s office had also revealed a series of disappearances within a five mile radius of the most recent case; the first had occurred close to 50 years ago, a few years after the town’s founding. A farm house was found mysteriously empty, the young couple nowhere to be found. Most of the locals suspected they had eloped and were on the run, so no one had made a big fuss. Another article 20 years later spoke briefly about a missing old man, though he had been so old and frail many thought he had died in the fields while working one day. And Sam would have dismissed it like the locals had if it hadn’t been for the date. When he went back and compared the dates, both disappearances had occurred around the beginning of March. After visiting with the chatty clerk at the office, he had learned that there had actually been more disappearances around that time throughout the years, but that the local newspaper that had been documenting them had gone out of business. As no one who was reported missing had ever been found, local law enforcement usually just went through the motions before filing away another unsolved case. So the disappearances had been forgotten by all but the senior-most townsfolk until it had happened again last year.

Given the timeliness of the disappearances and the long list of possible events, Sam suspected there was some sort of ritual involved. A ritual that could claim seven lives in one night. He let out a breath as the motel came into sight up ahead. He needed to do a little research on the two girls who had been closest to the event, and try and get some answers from them. And he had to do it quickly, as it was already midmorning on March the 3rd. Most disappearances had occurred on, or just after March 5th of each year. So if all this information was correct, he only had two days to figure out what was going on and stop this mess. 

He nearly turned the car around when he saw the Impala sitting in the lot. He should have known Dean would speed all the way here; even though Sam had left the moment Dean stormed out of the bunker, Dean had somehow managed to make it here in less than six hours. Sam adjusted his sleeve again, swallowed with some difficulty, ran a calming hand through his hair, and headed for his room. 

Before he could even reach for the handle the rickety blue door swung open, and Sam found himself standing face to face with his brother, whose green eyes were bright despite the stoic expression he wore. It wasn’t quite a full glower, for which Sam was thankful, but he still dreaded the coming conversation. He wasn’t sure he was even ready to hear Dean’s voice yet. The dreams still burned bright in the back of his mind, and the concept was so new to him, so foreign, that he didn’t quite know how to wrap his head around it.

“Having a nice trip?” Dean asked, expression still. Sam caught himself holding his breath, subconsciously bracing against the thoughts rolling around in his head. He was thankful that Dean didn’t look too worried, though seething anger had filled the gap. Seems that anger had won this time, then. Sam sighed, too tired and worried himself to throw up his usual barriers. 

“I’m sorry for yesterday, Dean.” He fought to keep his voice steady, surprised to find that he was actually really concerned about Dean’s reaction. Knowing Dean would be angry was one thing. To face it head on was another. He fought to swallow the lump that had settled in his throat. Dean remained silent as his glare simmered uncomfortably against Sam’s skin, which had begun to sweat. Sam opened his mouth and froze, not sure what he should apologize for first. 

Dean seemed to notice his hesitation and leaned back slightly, expression softening only a hair. He waited for Sam to continue. 

“I’m sorry I left without calling you first.” Sam looked down, examining the scuff on the side of his left shoe. “And I’m sorry I was so rude.”

“Yeah, you were a real bitch,” Dean said, not sure he could keep this anger burning for long with Sam looking so dejected about it all. Sam had this knack for looking like an abused puppy despite his substantial frame. After glaring for a few more seconds to drive home his irritation at his brother’s escape, he stepped back and gestured for Sam to come in. Sam glanced at him briefly before dropping his gaze again, shuffling over to the nearest chair and dropping quietly into it. He didn’t raise his eyes again once there. Dean remained by the door, studying him. After the quiet between them began to get uncomfortable he spoke. “Did I do something to piss you off? I mean, you were full on avoiding me, man.” 

“No,” Sam said quickly, resting his arms on the sides of the chair as if he wanted to regain his feet. His eyes flicked up, quivered, and dropped again. “No, you didn’t.” 

Dean wasn’t buying it. “Then what?” Sam didn’t answer, staring at the floor. He grit his teeth and spoke tersely, hands still crossed tightly across his chest. “I swear, Sam, if you don’t tell me what is going on right now, I’ll beat it out of you.” 

“I think…Cass was wrong.” Sam shoved the sentence out. Part of him was screaming, demanding he take it back and cover it up with some makeshift excuse. But Dean deserved to know, in at least some measure, that Sam’s reasons for avoiding him weren’t his fault. While right now Dean had hidden his more tender feelings beneath his angry bluster, it was only a matter of time before he started searching for reasons to blame himself. And Dean wasn’t the problem here; Sam and his secrets were. He took a second to brace himself before raising his eyes to meet his brother’s, gaze pleading and fearful enough that Dean felt his angry expression slipping into one of growing concern.

“Wrong about what?” Dean’s arms dropped to his sides as he approached Sam cautiously, who suddenly seemed unable to focus on any one thing, gaze flicking from door, to Dean, to the floor, and back to Dean. Sam swallowed, the lump in his throat growing tenfold at the sight of the tension that began to nestle back into his older brother’s shoulders. 

“About Endria’s soul. I don’t…” he faltered, letting out a soft chuckle that held not an ounce of humor, “I don’t think what I’m hearing in my head are echoes. I think…she’s in the mark. I think she’s in me.” His breath wavered as he let the last words go, his hand flying up to hover above the symbol that throbbed as if in confirmation. For some reason, voicing his concerns made them that much more tangible. Terror clung to the sides of his throat, and his stomach rolled dangerously as the onslaught of possibilities he had been trying to keep at bay swelled forward in his mind. He forced his hand back into his lap, forced himself to keep talking; he told Dean what she had said when he had faced down half a nest of vampires. He told him when he first started suspecting something. The whole time he spoke, he fought to keep some semblance of 

He told him about everything but the dreams, and the dangerous thoughts those dreams had awakened. This was one way in which he would not fail his brother. This internal battle with impossible emotions, trying to find just where on that line he needed to stand, was something Dean didn’t need to know about. Knowing would only hurt him. 

Dean’s face felt tight. He wanted to get angry at Sam for hiding more of his problems from him; but the fear that flickered in his brother’s hazel eyes as he spoke held the anger that threatened to leak out in check. Instead he found it draining away with each word Sam spoke, replaced by the urge to wrap him in a hug and pet his head soothingly. He remained planted where he was, though, determined to get as much of the truth out of his brother before surrendering to that urge. Otherwise Sam would simply cover it back up and wait until shit hit the proverbial fan to deal with it. The fact that Sam was sharing before said shit simply meant he wasn’t able to handle it alone. Which meant that despite his squared shoulders and firm gaze, Sam needed his brother more than ever right now. Dean fought to keep his own voice calm as he asked, “Did your research turn up anything?”

Sam looked briefly guilty. “I found a spell in Bobby’s journal, but it was nothing like what we witnessed. I didn’t finish reading.” Dean just sighed, scrubbing a hand roughly through his hair. He wasn’t willing to yell at Sam when he already looked like Dean had given him the lecture of a lifetime. 

“Let’s get reading, then.” He started for the door, teeth still grit in unvented anger. Even though he knew better, Sam’s secret keeping still felt like a betrayal. Did Sam just think he was untrustworthy? How was he supposed to help him if Sam wouldn’t tell him anything?

“Dean,” Sam said, voice raw. Dean took a moment to stifle his glare before turning around to face him. “I’m sorry.” 

“Whatever.” It came out before he could stop it, and he watched Sam flinch with a mild pang of guilt. He turned away as Sam’s eyes dampened, making his way to the Impala and composing himself for a moment behind the open trunk. The worry he had let settle flared in his chest again, and he took a few calming breaths before reaching for the jacket that held the journal. He had to admit he had suspected something, after the events in the motel and the diner. That hadn’t felt like Sam, and Dean trusted his gut. He knew his brother better than anyone else, alive or dead. But having Sam voice it like that gave them that much more credit. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly in an attempt to quiet them. It didn’t work. 

Now that he was alone inside the room, Sam let out a heavy breath before pulling out his computer, trying to distract himself from the pain in his chest by focusing on his research. Dean was taking a long time, which meant that he was probably glaring at the arsenal in the trunk and silently seething. Both of them probably needed a moment to regroup. Sam didn’t look up when he heard the motel door open again. 

“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” Dean asked, and Sam caught himself staring openly at his brother, who was staring back with intensity, re-crossing his arms as he stopped a few feet away. Usually when they separated that meant their conversation was over. They would just interact stiffly until some other problem popped up and forced them to reconcile their feelings. Dean’s sudden decision to address the problem directly, which was something that Sam was wildly unaccustomed to, completely threw him. 

Sam opened his mouth, unsure what to say. Dean’s new candidness had caught him off-guard, and before he knew it his actual thoughts slipped out of his mouth. “You had finally relaxed. I didn’t want to take that away again. I didn’t want to burden you any more than I already have.” 

Dean’s eyebrows dipped in confusion. “Sam, you’re not—”

“Don’t say it, Dean.” Sam said tightly, gaze bright. “Don’t you say that I’m not. That tightness in your shoulders, that knot in your brow? That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I was trying to prevent.” 

“By hiding the truth from me?” Dean’s anger flared. “That’s bullshit.” He approached Sam’s chair, and instinctually Sam climbed to his feet, shoulders braced. “I knew something was wrong, Sam. From the moment you came to in that motel room. I assumed you didn’t know!” Dean’s gaze burned, and Sam fought to keep his head up. 

“And why didn’t you tell me you suspected something?” Sam asked, feeling his own anger flare up at the onslaught of words Dean was suddenly throwing at him.

“Because you were recovering! I just wanted you to focus on that!” Dean sighed in reluctance. “I should have told you what I thought, I admit it. But you hid even more from me.” His expression shifted slightly, and Sam could see the hurt clearly in his eyes. “How can I help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?” 

“Why should I tell you what’s wrong if you can’t help me?” Sam responded, looking at the stress and anger that had wrapped its fingers around Dean’s silhouette like a second shadow. 

“Because neither of us has to deal with this shit alone.” Dean said, resting a hand on Sam’s arm. His softened tone stopped him from shrugging it off. “We’re in this mess together, Sam. So let’s deal. With. It. Together.” His grip tightened with each word. All Sam could manage was a nod, and after a moment Dean let go, nodding his own head in acceptance. He lifted the worn leather journal in the air before dropping it dramatically on the table. “Now let’s get working.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been such a long delay! I hit a bout of writer's block but I think I've got it back under control. Thank you for sticking with me as I work to wrap this up. Some fun is coming up in the next couple of chapters!

“Get back here.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Dean said tightly, glaring fiercely at Sam’s back as he lumbered around the room, gathering his belongings before heading toward the door. 

Sam sighed. “It can wait, Dean. We need to work the case first.” Despite their heart to heart moments ago, Sam could already feel that awkwardness creeping between them again. Dean had all but forgotten it, but those faint thoughts still flickered in Sam’s mind, preventing him from holding his brother’s gaze for more than a couple of seconds. He had to admit Dean’s anger was helping some, as much as he hated to draw out his brother’s ire. Maybe he should just keep pissing him off for a while, to keep him distracted. 

“What the hell is with the ‘it can wait’ crap?” Dean replied, slamming his half-drunk beer down on the table as he climbed to his feet, walking right up to his brother. “This is your life we’re talking about, Sam! If that bitch is hiding out inside of you, it seems to me that getting her out should be our first priority!”

Sam swallowed, leaning back to put some space between them without seeming too obvious. Dean just matched him, leaning in as he glared up at his brother. At least Dean’s anger was keeping him from noticing Sam’s odd behavior for now. He was more focused on the conversation than Sam’s barely hidden inner turmoil. “We owe it to the people here to solve this case, Dean. When we do, we can get back to our research. As long as I can still do my job, I’m gonna do it.” With that he snatched up his jacket and headed for the door. 

“And where the hell are you headed to ‘do your job?’” Dean asked mockingly, following him out and slamming the door behind him. 

“If you had been paying any attention when I was filling you in, you’d know, Dean. I’m going to talk to those two girls, the ones who made it back from the party last year. If anyone saw something, it would be them.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt. But any lead that got him out of that motel room was worth following. After their talk, Dean’s attention had hardly left him. If he had to spend one more minute under the scrutiny of that bright green gaze, he was going to self-destruct. If only Dean knew how strong his gaze was, maybe he could tone it down. But finding a way to telling his older brother to stop staring without alerting him to his new sensitivity seemed next to impossible, so for now Sam was going to try for a change of pace and hope for the best. 

Sam started for his blue sedan, slowing and stopping only when he heard the Impala’s door creak open and Dean clear his throat. He turned to see Dean sitting in the car with the passenger door resting invitingly ajar. “Fine. You want to solve the case first, we solve the case first. But we do it together. Take it or leave it.” 

Sam fought to keep his frustration hidden. Part of his plan had been to split up and get a little more time to himself. But apparently Dean had other ideas. Like keeping Sam on an unbelievably short leash. Sam sighed in surrender. But if he kept staring, Sam might have to clock him one, just to piss him off. Maybe then he would get off of his back. He gave Dean a curt nod before climbing into the car as the engine roared to life. Dean eyed him as they backed out of the parking spot. “Eyes on the road,” Sam said with annoyance. Dean huffed at him before obliging, pulling the car deftly into the street. 

 

The interview with the girls was a bust. The two of them had become roommates in an apartment complex in the next town over, a twenty minute drive from the motel. And the beginning had seemed so promising, too. But a few sentences into their conversation, both girls had confessed to being high as balls on the night of the party. They had left early to fill their snack cravings brought on by whatever mix of substances had been in their systems, and from that point on Sam found himself questioning each word that popped out of their mouths. The only thing that stuck with him was the red light they mentioned seeing as they drove back. Neither could pinpoint where they had seen it, but both had described it identically in their separate interviews with him and Dean. Everything else was a wave of contradiction and possible hallucinations. Even Dean seemed to be impressed by the level of crazy leaking out of their story, as he had emerged from the room with his eyebrows nearly glued to his hairline. Sam laughed in spite of himself, glad to see something other than that intense concern on his brother’s face. “To the house in question, then? I know it’s been almost a year since the event, but if their gossip is anywhere near correct, barely anyone’s been in the house since.” 

“Sure,” Dean said, giving the white apartment building a look of pity. “Though I think the word you’re looking for is sane, Sammy. And sanity is the last thing you’re ever going to find in that apartment.” He shuddered. Flirty and grabby he could handle. Angry and violent too. But crazy…crazy was never something he would be able to deal with. So when they climbed back into the car, he wasn’t surprised to catch himself letting out a breath of relief.

A few minutes on the road brought them to the driveway of the house in question. Dean was thankful to find an old fashioned chain holding the gate shut instead of one of those newfangled electric gates a lot of wealthy would-be country dwellers had. Sam had only needed a few seconds to pop the lock on the chain. Minutes later they reached the front door. 

The house seemed just as abandoned as the two girls had described; although twilight was quickly shifting into dusk, not a light was visible from their spot out front. A quick peek into the garage told them that there were no cars on the property either. While that meant they would have to use their flashlights carefully in the house, it also meant there was unlikely to be any interference in their search. With a silent gesture, Sam indicated that he would take the back. For some reason Dean’s stomach fluttered nervously as he stepped out of sight, but he ignored it. He couldn’t baby his brother and work on this case at the same time. Better to do his job and let Sam do his and keep an eye out for anything strange. Sam was still clearly his awkward self, and besides the two flashes in the diner and the motel and Sam’s own confession, Dean had little evidence to suggest there was anything beyond the mark that was out of the ordinary. Crippling them with his own concerns would do neither of them any good. 

Dean picked the front lock without incident, listening to the dry click of the bolt as it popped out of the wood. He could hear Sam shifting around in the back of the house as his flashlight beam flickered low across the floorboards. Dean kept his own light down, following the floor as he glanced at the distant lights of the next farm over from the front windows. As long as they kept the light away from the windows, it was unlikely they would bring anyone down on their heads. 

His own flashlight illuminated a series of red solo cups on the table in front of him, discolored stains still visible on the white plastic insides where the mystery cocktails had long since evaporated. Expanding his search revealed other signs of an ancient party, which had apparently never been cleaned since the group’s disappearance a year ago. A quick sweep of the upstairs confirmed that nobody was home. He whistled softly to Sam, relaxing when he heard him respond with the all-clear. He shuffled back down the stairs and found Sam with the beam of his flashlight shining almost directly out of the window.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, tugging Sam’s arm to move the light away from the window. Since when had Sam forgotten the basics of breaking and entering?

“No, Dean, look.” Sam replied, moving his light back to the windowsill. Dean followed his brother’s gaze incredulously, astounded at his audacity. Then he noticed the red smudges. He quickly approached the marks, rubbing his finger on the residue, which resembled a dry, fine dust. But the dust remained, not even staining his thumb. The smudge itself also looked undisturbed. Sam shifted his beam to the next window. “It’s over here too.” 

Dean checked the windows in the dining room. “Here too.” He jogged up the stairs and checked the windows in the first bedroom. “Up here, too.” 

Sam took a knife and attempted to scratch some of the dust off. Instead perfectly white paint shavings landed in his palm. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “It’s stuck to this exact spot. Like it can’t be removed.” 

“Huh.” Dean replied, examining the marks for any signs of familiarity. He hadn’t come across anything like this in his Dad’s or Bobby’s journals. A few minutes of thought didn’t bring him any closer. He let out a sigh and snapped a quick picture of the marks in question before jerking his head in a “let’s go” gesture. Sam nodded, following him quickly out the front door. Dean reached the car and turned to Sam only to find him stopped ten feet away, flashlight illuminating a “for sale” sign that had been hammered into the lawn. He paused and flipped open his notebook, writing something down before jogging to the car. “What was that about?” Dean asked, eyeing him curiously. 

“I’ve seen that name before.” Sam said, gesturing to the sign. “I can’t remember where, but…it feels important.” He climbed into the car and cleared his throat, awkwardness back now that he wasn’t racking his thoughts for a lead. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, eyeing the house in confusion before kicking the car into reverse and speeding back down the gravel road to the highway.


	42. Chapter 42

“This one’s empty too…” Sam muttered under his breath as he made his way back toward the living room where his brother stood staring at the now painfully familiar red smudges that lined the edge of the fireplace. Dean started and turned to face him, the hint of concern that still lingered in his eyes almost imperceptible behind his growing confusion regarding the case. This was the fourth house on the list Sam had gotten from the sheriffs’ office that they had visited, and each not only bore the same red smudges, but were eerily empty of people despite clear signs of their recent presence. That last fact seemed to be bothering Sam the most, as the crease in his brow had been growing deeper and deeper with each house. He fingered the half eaten TV dinner that looked like it was only days old. “There’s something seriously wrong here, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “I know.” 

“Do we report it?” Sam consulted his notes again. “According to this, there should still be an old couple living here. If they’ve disappeared too…”

“Well, your ‘annual ritual’ theory just took a flying leap out the window, that’s for sure.” 

Sam sighed. “Yup.” He examined the smudges on a nearby windowsill, running his thumb absently across the nearest mark even though he already knew it was stuck there. Dean watched him from his spot by the fireplace; despite his relaxed posture, Sam’s hazel eyes seemed to flick nervously between the marks, and his faint fidgeting suggested discomfort. What was bothering him? He took a step forward and saw Sam stiffen for a moment. But he still wouldn’t look up.

_All right, that’s it,_ Dean thought. “Is something bothering you? Because you suddenly seem fascinated by those marks over there.” _And you haven’t made eye contact with me since we left the motel._ Dean chose not to voice that last thought. 

Sam shrugged, not raising his eyes from the windowsill. Dean grit his teeth, fighting to not say anything. “This case is just…it’s strange, Dean. It doesn’t make sense. And if so many people are missing….why is my list so short?” He waved his journal in the air for emphasis, catching Dean’s eye for a brief moment before shifting it stiffly away. Dean’s eyebrows dipped in annoyance. 

“I don’t think it’s just the case bothering you.” He tightened his shoulders and crossed his arms, not wanting to let Sam know just how much being avoided was starting to hurt him. 

Sam swallowed and steeled himself before raising his eyes. The hurt in Dean’s gaze made his chest ache; he knew that distancing himself from Dean was going to hurt him just as surely as sharing his most recent thoughts about him. He forced himself to cross the room and give Dean his best attempt at a casually mocking expression. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re worrying too much.” Dean held his gaze, gauging him. Sam fought to keep his face still, trying to repress the flush that seemed to be threatening the corners of his cheeks. Dean didn’t know just how intense his stare could be. Didn’t know that when he stared, Sam’s thoughts flickered back to his dreams the other night, when those same eyes had been gentle and warm, and so, so close. Sam swallowed thickly, thankful for the shadows of the empty house as his face heated. After what felt like a minute but was probably closer to five seconds he nodded and shifted his own gaze away with an awkward clear of the throat. 

“Fine. Let’s go.” Dean said, voice stiff. And with that he turned and marched out the door. Sam heard the car door open and close a moment later. Taking a brief second to recover, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

_Do you think he noticed us blushing?_ Endria chimed in cheerily. Sam jumped, shocked to find that she was louder than she had been before. This time it sounded like she had spoken directly into his ear. “Shut up.” He muttered as he started to make his way back to the car. Dean was watching him from the driver’s seat, as if he thought the thin pane of glass was enough to obscure his gaze. _Make me,_ she replied as their eyes met briefly. Sam swallowed again. This was going to be a long night. 

 

Sam was out of the car before Dean had even put her in park, slipping into the motel room without a word to his brother. Dean sighed, flicking off the headlights and gathering his own things before reaching for the door handle. He had tried to keep conversation light in the car, directing it to the case or the road or some bad joke to keep Sam distracted. And at first it seemed to be working. But then Sam would make eye contact and freeze, or glance away, or simply fall silent. And Dean couldn’t help feeling like he was somehow to blame for this shift in his brother. Was he watching him too closely? It’s not like he could help worrying about him. That was his job as his older brother, right?

The bright blue flash of his phone screen pulled him out of his thoughts. He hit the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear, still posed to open the Impala door. “Cass. How’s the case?”

He heard the angel sigh. “Solved. And it was not, as you say, ‘our kind of thing’.” 

Dean felt his eyebrow rise. “And it took you this long to figure that out why?” 

The angel sighed again. “The killer read comic books. He had designed gauntlets to resemble the claws of a character called the Wolverine.”

“And what happened?” 

Castiel sounded mildly confused. “He’s dead.”

“Huh.” Dean said, lip curling thoughtfully. “So Angel beats Wolverine. Good to know.” 

“How is Sam?” Cass asked with a sigh, trying to change the subject. Dean glanced up at the motel room door, making sure Sam was still out of earshot. He could feel the thick ball of stress that pressed on his throat, hot and coppery as he tried to swallow it back. 

“I don’t think he’s doing so well, Cass.” He managed, trying to reign in his emotions. He filled Cass in on their earlier conversation. “He looked so worried. I haven’t seen him like that since…” _Since he found out he had demon blood in him._

“But he’s still in control?” 

Dean sighed, running a hand over his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. But he says he’s hearing her, Cass. Like, full on stereo in his head. He even said he’d been researching possible cases of witch possession. I just—I” Dean bit off the last of his sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question that rested on his lips. 

“I’m on my way,” the angel answered anyway, clearly detecting the request through the tense silence on the other end of the receiver. 

“Thanks, Cass,” Dean breathed, relief flooding him. “I owe you.” The angel grunted in assent, voice distorted through the phone. “I’ll send you the address.” Dean finished. And with that he cleared his throat and hung up the phone, too embarrassed to talk any longer. He hated airing his vulnerabilities like that, but Cass had a way of pulling out of him. And while his fear for Sam still remained—if he was honest, that wasn’t something that was ever going to go away—the sting had dulled to a quiet throb. While he doubted he’d say it to his face, Dean was unbelievably thankful to have him as a friend. Sam’s shadow pulled him from his thoughts as it slipped away from the motel room window. Angry heat washed through him for a moment. Oh, so when I’m nearby the bastard can’t look at me but spying through curtains is fine? Dean swallowed his annoyance and quickly shook himself out of his thoughts, climbed out of the car, and headed for the door.


	43. Chapter 43

“I knew it!” Dean jolted awake to the sound of Sam’s palms smacking against the plastic tabletop. Once he had confirmed that the room was clear, he threw a quiet glare at Sam as he slowly released the wooden handle of his switchblade. That clumsy giant had clearly gotten so sucked into whatever he was researching he had forgotten the basics of letting people sleep, and waking them up without inducing a sleep-addled panic. Then Dean glanced at the clock and groaned; it wasn’t even 5:00am yet. 

After his exclamation, Sam had resumed his work, tapping furiously at the backlit keys in front of him, the blue of the screen making him look even paler than he usually did. He didn’t seem to notice Dean’s stare, so Dean decided to take the opportunity scrutinize him undetected and see how he was really doing without incurring that awkward pressure that seemed to be forming between them whenever their eyes met. 

He could still see the mark plastered darkly to his brother’s skin, crawling sinisterly out of his shirt collar and up this throat like hands just waiting to strangle the life out of him. Dean threw it a pointed glare, wishing that he had the kind of stare that could send a curse running. The mark didn’t shift. 

Beyond that, Sam had returned to his healthy, obscenely energetic self. Except for the fact that he had clearly not slept at all last night. Dean wondered when he had climbed out of bed; usually movement like that would wake him up. But Sam could be quiet when he wanted to be. He felt a faint smile tug at his lips at the thought of Sam climbing gingerly out of the creaking spring bed, grimacing as he tried to leave Dean sleeping. That must have been one awkward sight. The quiet thrum of concern in his chest whittled that brief smile away, and the memory of Sam just after Jess’s death swam to the surface. Sam barely slept then too, and often woke from awful nightmares. He hoped the latter wasn’t a problem, but wondered if some of Sam’s own worries had somehow dredged long forgotten memories back to the surface. But Sam didn’t look uncomfortable or hounded, however, so Dean put the thought aside for the time being. 

Sam still hadn’t noticed his stare, so Dean kept looking. He took in Sam’s hair, which had been swept messily to the side by the countless passes his right hand had taken through it; a small piece seemed to curl out from his left ear, framing it in light and shadow. Sam’s jaw muscles shifted slightly, and Dean quickly saw that he was worrying absently at the inside of his lower lip, an unconscious habit he had had since he was a kid. Whenever he was particularly focused on something he would chew on that exact same spot. It was a wonder he hadn’t chewed through his cheek yet, Dean thought. His eyes wandered a little higher. Dean had always admired the graceful slope of Sam’s nose, and took a second to do so again. 

Even from across the room in the dark, Dean could see his other muscles pressed against his clothes, his arms flexing absently as he scratched a spot on his shoulder. He was still lean, but compared to how gangly Sam used to look ages ago, before the long years of tough fights and self-enforced workout regimens, he had bulked up pretty well. Finally, Dean’s gaze flicked up to Sam’s eyes, which he had saved for last, not wanting to accidentally draw his attention. He was actually surprised Sam hadn’t noticed him staring yet, as Sam was usually pretty sensitive to others’ gazes and it had already been several minutes yet Dean still hadn’t been able to drag his eyes away. But Sam’s gaze remained glued to to the research in front of him, had not ventured across the room to see Dean looking at him yet. Even in the cool light of the computer his eyes burned a hot hazel, lit with energy and excitement as he did what he loved most. Beyond the actual hunting and people saving, Dean knew that one thing Sam loved most was the research, looking for answers to the questions they asked during each case. And based on the gleam and focus in his eyes now, he was on the cusp of finding a lead, if not all the answers they already needed. 

Then Sam stilled, as if listening to something, that sharp focus dulling into an idle gaze. Dean strained his ears and heard nothing but the soft fan of Sam’s laptop. After a few moments, Sam’s eyes widened and flew to meet Dean’s, once again sharp as blades. Immediately that hot pressure that had been plaguing them roared back into life. Dean waited for Sam to break eye contact, like he had been doing all day, ignoring the tight heat that was tunneling through his arteries. He dared him to avoid him again, to show him evidence that something here was wrong. Instead Sam swallowed stiffly before offering a smile that was more awkwardness than charm. “Sorry, did I wake you?” His eyes seemed to tremble in place, as if maintaining eye contact was taking considerable effort. 

“Yup,” Dean said, sitting up and stretching, pointedly moving his gaze away for a second. He observed Sam relax noticeably from the corner of his eye. He returned his gaze and Sam stiffened once again. Dean sighed, trying to keep his anger to a low simmer as he spoke. Sam was acting like a spooked horse. If he wanted to get answers, he needed to be gentle with his questions. So even though he wanted to lash out at him, tell him just how stupid it was to be avoiding him like he had been, shove him up against the wall and threaten to beat the secrets out of him, he decided that he would acknowledge Sam’s effort to reverse things and speak as gently as he could. “Was she talking to you just now?” 

Sam twitched faintly, and Dean wondered at the color that flared in Sam’s cheeks, but the blue light of the screen made it hard to tell whether it had actually happened, or was just a trick of the light. “Yeah,” Sam offered quietly after a moment. 

“What did she say?” Dean kept his tone light, desperate to control it now that Sam was offering him real answers. 

“She told me you were…awake.” Sam offered awkwardly, this time succumbing to the discomfort and dropping his gaze. Dean noticed the soft pause in his response, but chose not to say anything. Maybe once Cass got here he could get some real answers out of him. For whatever reason Sam seemed to be more comfortable sharing things with their angel friend than his own older brother. Dean swallowed the pang of jealousy that followed that thought. It was likely that whatever else was bothering Sam involved Dean, which meant that to protect him Sam had probably chosen not to share. The big idiot.

“Huh.” Dean offered in response, shifting his own gaze away from Sam so that his brother could stop looking like a friggin’ statue. After a short pause, Dean switched topics. “Sounds like you found something on our case?” He asked as he approached the table, secretly hoping that Sam had actually been researching his own case. But Sam was as good as his word; the local case came first. 

“Ok, check this out,” Sam offered, spinning his laptop around to reveal a real estate company’s website. Dean’s expression didn’t shift as he stared blankly at the screen. 

“What the hell does this have to do with anything?” He asked, feeling dumb. He hated feeling dumb on a case; usually he was the one with all the answers. Whenever they encountered something new, he felt like Sam often carried the weight. 

“You see this name?” He pointed to a “Damien Wells,” an old man who smiled hungrily out of his professional photo, clearly a master of business and getting what he wanted. The thickness of his neck suggested he had been getting what he wanted for a very long time. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, still not getting Sam’s point. 

“This was the name I found on the for sale sign at that first house, Dean. But get this; this same last name, ‘Wells,’ is on the lease, contract, or open sale for every single house we visited last night.”

Light finally dawned in Dean’s eyes. “So you think this family has something to do with all of our disappearances.” 

Sam shrugged. “It’s the only connecting link I’ve found that includes all the houses. There are a couple other houses on this list, some recent sales done by his son, Parker Wells. Do we want to check them out first, to be sure?” 

Dean nodded. “Might as well.” He looked at the screen again. “Any leads on where we might find Damien and his son?”

Sam grimaced. “That’s going to be a little harder.” He sighed, flipping to an obituary on the next tab. “Damien Wells passed away a couple of months ago. Presumably because he was grieving, Parker took a leave of absence from the real estate company. It doesn’t say when he’ll be back.” 

Dean nodded. “Well, some local in a bar should be able to help us with that little bit of information. It’s a small enough town. At least give us a direction.” Sam nodded in agreement, shutting his laptop and heading to gather his things. 

“Hold up there, Sammy.” Dean said, gripping his arm to stop him. “You need to get a little shut-eye first, and I sure could use some more myself.” 

Sam just shook his head, tugging his arm a little too quickly, too forcefully out of Dean’s grip. “I can always get sleep after, Dean. Right now the case is more important.” And with that he headed for the door. Dean sighed, looking longingly at his bed before grabbing his shoes and following suit.


	44. Chapter 44

The car ride to the first house was filled with a thick, contemplative silence. Sam tried to smother his recent onslaught of thoughts about Dean with an ongoing list of possible monsters and magics that could be involved in the rash of disappearances. It was Endria’s fault his mind had been twisted like this; he had been by his brother’s side for years without an issue. Sure, he cared for his brother more than anyone else in this world or the next, but now there was something else there, tainting it. He wondered briefly if Endria’s own attraction to Dean was tainting him in some way. If their emotions were merging, was he even farther gone than he thought? He glanced down at his hand as he flexed his fingers experimentally. _Still in control_. He let out a quiet sigh, then tensed as Dean’s gaze slid away from the road and onto him in response, first taking in his fingers before flicking up to catch his gaze. Since when had he become so sensitive to Sam’s every gesture? Sam forced his eyes to meet Dean’s with a tight lipped smile before letting them retreat back to the safety of the open road in front of them. 

Dean followed suit, his own thoughts consumed by the sudden changes in Sam’s behavior. Whatever was going on in his head, it had made Sam painfully aware of him, and the stiff reactions he had been receiving were really starting to weigh on him. Sam had requested he stop worrying so much, and because it was Sam who had asked Dean had worked hard to hide his concern as much as he possibly could. But when acting naturally set Sam off just as surely as his earlier concern did, Dean found himself starting to worry even more than he had before. That worry shifted quickly to annoyance, and tightened Dean’s fingers on the steering wheel. Even sitting silently beside him in the car, Sam was avoiding him, choosing to bury himself in his thoughts and the passing trees, thickening the air with tension. Dean couldn’t fight the feeling that if something didn’t change soon, Sam was going to run away again, for real this time. And with Endria chattering away in his head, there was no way Dean was ever going to let that happen. So for now, he wasn’t going to push it. He would endure the sting of rejection a little longer. They would finish this case, get rid of that joyriding bitch, and then he’d have his brother back. 

“Dean, pull over.” Sam spoke sharply, fingers already pulling at the door handle. 

“What?” Dean asked, surprised. It was as if his thoughts were suddenly coming true. He shot Sam a wary look, concerned by his sudden abruptness. But as Sam already looked prepared to leap out of a moving car, he obliged, stepping on the brake and throwing the car hastily into park. Sam opened the door and immediately began to jog toward the tree line at the edge of the highway. “Sam, wait! What’s wrong?” Dean called after him as he fought to climb out of the car himself and follow. His heart pounded harshly in his chest as Sam disappeared into the shadow of the woods. When he reached the tree line himself he stumbled to a stop, searching frantically for his brother’s back. “Sam!” He called. 

“Over here,” he heard as he reached the trees. Sam stood about twenty feet from the edge of the woods, ripping a grey tarp off of an abandoned looking white sedan. Dean started to let out a breath of relief when he saw them: red smudges coated the paint outside the car windows. Sam let out a huff. “Someone knows people are disappearing, Dean. Why else would they hide the car in the woods?” 

Dean came to a stop beside Sam, still battling the worry that had almost engulfed him as Sam had charged off alone. He forced himself to stare at the car, to swallow the irrational desire to grab his brother’s arm and not let go. Dean hadn’t felt this worried about him in a long time, and wondered if some of his recent thoughts might be to blame for his flaring concern. Once he was sure he had gotten himself back under control, he spoke. “Seems like we need to find our friend Parker, and fast.” Sam raised his eyebrows briefly in agreement before patting Dean on the shoulder and heading back to the car. Dean let out a stressed puff of air as he followed close behind. 

It was close to 6:30am when the Impala slid into the driveway of the first house on Sam’s revised list. Unlike the last few houses, a car sat neatly in this driveway, completely devoid of the dreaded red dust. The house itself, however, was still noticeably silent. Sam pressed a finger to his lips and climbed out of the car, flashlight in hand. He crept as close to the front windows as he could before clicking on the flashlight and shining it on the sill just inside. He flashed his light twice at Dean, confirming that there was evidence of more disappearances on the sill. Dean sighed, wondering just how many people had gone missing over the years, with this massive list they had accumulated just in the last twenty-four hours still growing. He grabbed his own flashlight and set of lockpicks and made his way up to the porch. Sam had slipped around back already, so Dean took up his post out front, picked the lock, and slipped inside. 

According to Sam’s research, there should have been a family of three living here. The toys strewn about the floor suggested that the child was young, no older than six or seven. And yet an even layer of dust coated every surface in the house, pale and grey against the red marks that coated every entry point in the house. Dean scooted a few toys out of his way as he advanced into the living room. Everything in the house was silent and still, just like the other houses they had visited. Then he noticed a water bottle, crumpled and well used, sitting on the coffee table. It was completely devoid of dust. He opened his mouth to whistle a warning to Sam when he heard a muffled grunt and a loud thud toward the back of the house. Sounds of a scuffle ensued as Dean broke into a sprint.

“Sam!” He bellowed as he rounded the corner and took in the sight in front of him. His little brother lay flattened on the floor, the dirty giant of a man crouched on his stomach with hands around Sam’s neck. Sam’s own hands strained at his fingers, trying to pry them loose as his face began to purple. Dean started forward as Sam’s fist flew out of nowhere and connected solidly with his attacker’s jaw, sending him staggering to the side. Dean drew his gun as the man lunged forward with an angry roar and took careful aim. “Stop right there!” He shouted. The man who towered easily over even Sam’s head froze and raised his arms in surrender, shoulders hunching. 

“I don’t got nothin’ you want, I swear!” He nearly blubbered, eyes flared as he stared down the barrel of Dean’s gun. Sam coughed roughly as he regained his feet, leaning on the counter for support as he hungrily sucked air back into his lungs. He tossed a glare at his now cowering assailant. Dean cast him a calculating glance and felt his jaw tighten as he saw the beginnings of purple bruises blossom around Sam’s neck. The way his little brother’s hand hovered near the mark suggested that contact with it had made things even more painful. Dean hissed angrily as he stepped forward. 

“Dean, stop!” Sam said, voice hoarse thanks to his nearly crushed windpipe. With visible effort, he dragged himself to stand between the man and Dean’s gun. The man cowered behind him, arms in front of his face as if simply looking at the gun would kill him. Dean stared at Sam incredulously as he half-lowered the gun. 

“He was trying to strangle you!” Was it just him, or did Sam actually look sheepish?

Sam cleared his throat, looking back at the man who watched him with openmouthed fear. “I tripped on him…while he was sleeping. It was probably just self-defense.” He held up his hands in mock surrender, holding Dean’s gaze earnestly. “Let’s just…talk, before we shoot, okay? I’m fine.” He gave Dean a convincing smile. Dean watched him wobble briefly and recover. “Besides, does he really look like he can do much damage in this state?”

Dean sighed and nodded. Sam was trying hard to look okay, and he had to admit that shooting even an asshole like this so early in the case would do nothing but cause them problems later on. “But I’m not putting my gun away. I don’t want him trying anything.” _Now get out of the way of the freaking gun, you numb-nuts!_

“I won’t try anything, I promise, I won’t,” the man said, staring thankfully at Sam, who stepped slowly out from in front of the gun as he turned to face him. 

“Sit.” Dean said through clenched teeth, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. The man quickly complied. 

Sam began questioning him, holding his knife loosely in one hand as he supported himself on the kitchen counter with the other. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The man pulled his worn grey beanie off his head, revealing a mess of baldness and liver spots. “They c-call me Sykes, down at the sh-shelter.” He bobbed his head humbly. He grew even more nervous as he continued, glance flicking quickly between Dean’s gun and Sam’s shuttered expression. “I-I know I’m not supposed to be here, b-b-but the shelter was full and it was cold an-and I just needed a place to stay and I knew this place was empty. I swear I was just gonna be here for the n-n-n-night!” It was almost comical, watching a man who dwarfed Sam cower like a quivering mouse. Dean was impressed he had mustered any fight at all. 

“How did you know this place was empty?” Dean asked with force. The man jumped in place and whipped his head around to face him. Sam cast Dean a warning look. Dean took a moment to swallow the anger that still threatened to surge forth and repeated the question, more gently this time.

“I-I seen it happen.” Sykes said with what sounded like awe. 

“You saw what happen?” Sam asked. 

“I seen people disappear, man, from right in front of my eyes! Was drunk the first time it happened, th-thought I was havin’ a stroke, my liver burnin’ out, maybe…one second they was there, and the next, light, and then poof! G-gone.” He heaved a breath and continued. “Saw that light in this house couple o’ weeks ago, so I knew they was gone too. I didn’t think it’d hurt, j-just one night, y’know?” He looked around warily, as if he expected to disappear himself any second. 

“Wait,” Dean said slowly, anger temporarily replaced with interest, “tell us about this light you keep mentioning.” Sam nodded, a spark of excitement flickering in the back of his eyes. 

Sykes took a breath and nodded. “I-I-It was bright, sudden, blinding. Like the sun came down to surprise ya. When it’d gone all I could s-see was r-r-red. Then dark. And then no-no-one was there no more. The place was just empty.” Sam and Dean exchanged a look. 

“I’d…find a new place to sleep if I were you, Sykes,” Sam offered kindly. 

“Yeah, like under a bridge somewhere?” Dean offered under his breath. Sam shot him a look, to which he rolled his eyes. 

But Sykes looked terrified at the thought. “Not the bridge outta town, no sir. People who crouch there, they always gone by morning, and we never see ‘em again.” He sighed as he bent to collect his things. “No, the woods’ll be better, safer.” He raised his eyes hopefully to Dean. “Thanks for not shootin’ me.”

Dean stared coldly at him. “If you touch my brother again I’ll kill you.” He waved his gun. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.” Sykes yelped as he scooped up the last of his things and darted for the sliding door that led into the back yard. His water bottle, long forgotten, sat abandoned in the living room. 

“Dude, chill,” Sam said, watching the man as he hopped the fence. “I’m seriously fine.” He waved his knife hand as if to demonstrate. But Dean could see how tightly he gripped the counter with his other hand. How his chest still heaved as he swallowed more air. How his eyes were still a little dull, like his brain hadn’t restarted fully yet. Dean bit back a smart comment as re-engaged the safety and put his gun away. A few months ago, before all of this sigil business, he would have been able to shrug that off, let Sam save his skin. Maybe even throw a few passing jokes at him on their way out. But now, it was all Dean could do not to call him out on it. After stowing his gun, he made his way to Sam, resting a hand on the small of his back as he offered to help him to the car. But Sam just stiffened and stepped away, wobbling treacherously for a second as he made his way to the door alone. Dean clenched his fist, the last bit of heat from Sam’s back already seeping from his fingers. It was painful letting Sam walk himself out, because even though he was relatively steady on his feet it was clear that it was taking quite a bit of effort. He knew Sam would be fine as soon as he got the air back in his system, but watching him work so hard to seem fine sent a stabbing pain through Dean’s chest. He took a calming breath before following Sam to the car, fist still clenched.


	45. Chapter 45

Despite Sam’s insistence that he was fine, Dean could tell that the lack of sleep mixed with his recent near strangulation had drained Sam of his earlier enthusiasm. He ignored Sam’s complaints as he headed straight for the motel. When he finally realized he didn’t have a say in the matter, Sam let out an annoyed huff and settled back into his seat. He ran a hand absently over his neck, flinching as he pressed a little too hard on his newest collection of bruises. Dean grit his teeth as another wave of rage rolled through him. Even though Sykes was long gone, and had clearly shown that his earlier attack had come out of nothing but fear, Dean still wanted to track him down and send a bullet right through his chest. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to level himself, realizing that he probably needed some time to cool off as well.

Sam, who had avoided looking at him up to this point, was now watching him with a mixture of worry and disbelief. “Dean, are you okay? You seem…really tense.” Sam knew Dean was angry for him, even though he didn’t have to be. They both had been through worse, and the whole situation at the house had resolved itself rather smoothly. Sure, swallowing was going to hurt for a week or so while the bruises healed, but considering everything he had suffered fairly little damage. 

“I’m fine,” Dean said tersely. 

Sam placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, hesitated, and drew it away again. “Dean, for the last time, I am okay. Don’t waste your energy on something this stupid. Just calm down.” _Something this stupid almost got you killed,_ a voice in the back of Dean’s head responded. 

“I’ll calm down when we’re back at the motel. And you’re actually going to sleep this time.” Dean replied instead. He threw Sam a look that said, _just try and argue with me_. Sam wondered what Dean might try to force him if he tried to resist. Images of possibilities flashed through his head: Knock him out? Tie him up? Or just use his own weight to pin Sam to the bed? Unbidden, Sam felt that imaginary weight, that taut muscle and heat; they’d probably be close enough to feel Dean’s breath on his cheek. That last thought made his heart—and something much lower—twitch. Sam flushed immediately, then paled as he realized what he was thinking about. _Get out of my thoughts!_ He directed at the laughing voice in the back of his head.

_Sammy, Darling, that wasn’t me. That was all you,_ she responded as her laughter increased in volume. Sam cringed away from the sound, fighting the urge to press his hands to his ears. He was definitely going to sleep without resistance. He just wished Dean wouldn’t be in the room while he slept. He knew that Endria had almost free reign over his dreams, and if whatever that was earlier were his waking thoughts, and if they were anything like that last night at the bunker….yeah, it would be better if Dean were as far from that motel room as possible. He let out a sigh. He missed the days when he could enjoy his brother’s company without being hounded by all of these alien thoughts. He wouldn’t acknowledge that tingling feeling in his chest, that hunger in his stomach. It wasn’t him thinking those things. There was no way those kinds of thoughts were his own!

_What the hell is going on in Sam’s head right now?_ Dean thought with creased eyebrows. He had just witnessed about eight expressions cross his face in the last thirty seconds. Sam’s hands twitched in his lap as they reacted to some thought in his head. He quickly dragged his eyes back to the road, fighting the urge to continue staring. Sam hadn’t opened his mouth to argue, and for now Dean was going to consider that a victory. They passed the rest of the car ride in silence. 

Castiel’s car sat in the lot right next to Sam’s stolen sedan, and Dean felt a wave of relief. The recent interactions with his brother had been so emotionally intense, he had to admit he was looking forward to interacting with someone a little more…emotionally predictable.

Sam didn’t seem near as excited to see him. “You called Cass? What, you think I need babysitting?” Dean couldn’t read the swirl of emotions in Sam’s gaze. 

“C’mon, Sam, really? He just finished his case and came to help us with ours.”

“We don’t need help, Dean, we’ve got this!” 

“You said yourself it was time sensitive! I just figured we could use the reinforcements! No need to get your panties in a twist.” He regretted that last remark as soon as he said it. Sam clearly hated girl jokes, and while Dean still believed he fully deserved the comment, the look of hurt that flickered behind his scowl made guilt flutter in Dean’s gut. Without another word, Sam climbed out of the car and headed for the motel room door. He gave Cass a brief greeting before stepping into the bathroom to seethe on his own for a bit. Dean let him go without a word. 

“He doesn’t seem very happy to see me.” Castiel observed to Dean as he dropped the gun bag on the floor with a sigh. “The bruises on his neck…are you two alright?” He leveled his sapphire stare on the older brother. 

“We’re fine, Cass, thanks for asking.” Dean said, sending a pointed stare at the bathroom door. Even now he knew Sam was running his fingers over those bruises in the mirror, tending to whatever wounds he had been working to hide from Dean the entire ride back. “Are you sure you can’t do anything about Sam’s injuries?” He said before he could stop himself. 

The angel shook his head slowly, glancing at the bathroom door before returning his gaze to Dean’s. “Whatever magic is in that sigil, it rejects my powers. As long as it is active, there is nothing I can do for him.” Dean was shocked to see that the angel almost looked defeated, shoulders sagging as he repeated the bad news. 

“Hey, man, it’s okay, really.” He said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault.” He gave him a half-smile, all he could manage through the stress that continued to rattle through him.

“What happened?” Castiel asked, eyeing Dean’s tense shoulders. Dean filled him in briefly, telling him about the disappearances, the light, and the homeless man that had almost strangled his brother. He neglected to mention that he still felt the urge to shoot the guy, but from the look he was getting he realized that Castiel probably knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“You are very tense,” He observed. Dean let out a huff of amusement and annoyance. Castiel’s brow furrowed in response. “Do you need to…talk about it?” 

“What?” Dean asked, taken aback. “No! I don’t need to talk about my damn feelings, or whatever. We need to finish this case, and we need to fix Sam!” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Whatever she’s doing to him, Cass, it’s really bothering him.” And I think it has something to do with me. Dean figured it was better to voice that last thought out of Sam’s earshot. He jerked his head toward the door, and the angel followed him obligingly to the car. Dean leaned on the trunk, crossing his arms and sending a glare at the early morning sun. After a minute of stiff silence he begrudgingly filled Cass in on the weird dynamic that had developed between them recently, how Sam couldn’t even look at him for more than three seconds without looking like he was going to run away, and how each time that happened he started to worry more and more that he might. When he glanced back at the angel, he noticed that he was being watched very closely. “What?”

Castiel looked like he was choosing his words very carefully. “Since the motel and the diner, you have been watching him very closely. Is it possible he simply noticed this? After all, you are the person who he cares for most. The one he wants to impress most. To be watched so closely by someone whose good opinion you’re always striving for, would that not be enough to overwhelm him?” 

Dean shook his head slowly, surprised at how thoroughly the angel seemed to be considering this. Usually emotions were not his thing. He wondered briefly if during one of the earlier weeks when Castiel and Sam had been in close quarters, if Sam had indeed shared something with him already? A bitter taste formed in the back of his mouth, but he swallowed it down. “I think…there’s more than that. I’ve seen him, when he hears her talking. She’s saying things to him, putting thoughts in his head…and while he’s putting on a good show of holding it together, I can see him…slipping.” He banged his fist on the trunk of the impala, sending her a silent apology. “I can’t let her win like this. I just want to help him, and I don’t know how. I’m useless.” 

Cass eyed him with sympathy. “You’re not useless, Dean. Even today, you saved his life.”

“He would have saved himself.” 

“Regardless,” the angel replied, glancing behind him toward the motel room. “It means something. And Sam is just as worried about you as you are of him. He may have his own problems, but he’s not blind to your concern, either.” 

“How do you know that?” Dean said with a bitter laugh. 

“Because he’s been watching us from the motel room window.” Dean turned around in time to see the curtain drop back into place. Castiel was smiling faintly, admiring the persistence of affection between his two dearest friends. He was thankful that both had begun to confide freely in him, and that the advice he could give had been relatively helpful. Already some of Dean’s tension was subsiding, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips now that he was made aware once again of how much Sam cared for him too. He cast another glance at the sky, deep in thought. 

“Cass, I need you to do me a favor.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, I made some substantial edits in the last six chapters; plot is virtually the same, but there are a few revised passages regarding our characters inner thoughts. Again, you won't be missing anything if you don't read them, but they're there if you want to refresh your memory.

Sam sighed as he heard the tell-tale rumble of the Impala’s engine as Dean started the car, hands still resting lightly on the opaque motel curtains. He rubbed absently at a mystery spot for a second before he thought better of it, wiping his fingers instead on the front of his shirt to remove any invisible residue he might have picked up. So Dean had left, then. Sam had begun to realize that it was a possibility the moment he saw Cass’s car in the parking lot. He knew Dean was using a lot of unnecessary energy worrying over Sam, and he had to admit that being in the same room when Sam was dealing with his malfunctioning thoughts and Dean was constantly trying to figure out what was wrong was incredibly exhausting for both of them. And Sam had left on his own first, he had to remind himself. Still, he couldn’t ignore the stinging in his chest as the rumble faded to a purr, and then silence. Dean hadn’t abandoned him, he knew that. But his thoughts kept thrumming quietly to the rhythm of _he just left. He just…left._

Dean didn’t even bother to tell him he was leaving. 

Another wave of pain shot through the sigil, burning its way across his chest and making his vision swim. He gripped the curtains again, this time in an attempt to keep himself standing. He was vaguely aware of the door opening, and then a hand settling firmly on his shoulder. “Sam?” Cass asked, and with effort Sam slid his gaze from the stains on the curtain to the angel’s concerned expression. He swallowed the nausea back and took a couple of calming breaths, reminding himself that Dean would be back. He was probably just going to check out the rest of the houses, talk to some more of the locals, and end up at the local bar just after lunch to drink the rest of the afternoon away. And as quickly as it had started, the pain, dizziness, and nausea stopped. He noticed as Cass slipped his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call Dean.” 

“No,” Sam said, placing his hand over the phone and offering the angel a smile for reassurance, “It’s fine, Cass. I’m fine. Just tired.” Castiel eyed him silently, trying to measure the honesty of his words. For a moment, it looked like Sam was about to have another episode, like the one in the motel when Dean had gone missing. But Sam was already shuffling toward the bed, snatching his duffle up off the floor and dropping it on the mattress. With a sigh, the angel reluctantly slid the phone back into his pocket. Calling Dean now would only worry him more, and while he was definitely going to tell Dean about this later, he didn’t see the harm in letting them both relax a bit first. No doubt Sam thought he could benefit from some extra space himself, since he had “jumped ship” at the bunker, as Dean had put it, and come here alone. 

“So Dean passed babysitting duty on to you, then?” Sam asked, unable to keep the tightness out of his voice. 

Castiel cocked his head, eyebrows low as he considered Sam’s words. “Dean asked me to come help with the case. I was going to do some research and keep watch so you can rest.” Sam let out a bitter laugh as he fished out a t-shirt and fresh pair of boxers. 

“Fine.” He finally said, deflating his anger with a deep breath. “Just…do you mind doing that…outside? I don’t want to…” He drifted off, not sure there was any way he could even begin to hint to the angel just why he wanted him to leave the room. Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“Yes, of course. I know my constant wakefulness makes you…uncomfortable.”

Sam huffed amusedly at that. “Thanks, Cass. I just…need a little space. You can borrow my laptop if you want.” He pointed to the table by the entryway. Castiel just nodded and grabbed the laptop as he exited the room. Sam knew he was going to sit at the table just outside the door, and that only a thin wall was going to separate them, but those six inches of drywall were much better than nothing. He hoped it wasn’t a necessary counter-measure, but he wasn’t about to risk dreaming openly in front of anyone. Not until he could get this cruel, manipulative monster out of his head. He changed quickly, ripping the sheets back and climbing in bed without any further ceremony. It took only a couple of minutes before he felt sleep tugging at the edges. Taking one more calming breath, he let it pull him under. 

 

“Sammy. Sammy!” Dean’s voice shouted from afar, sharpened with concern. Sam felt his face muscles bunch as he fought to sit up. Something sharp and cold pressed uncomfortably against his back, and he heard himself hiss as he felt a hot snick against the exposed skin as he shifted. Apparently the object underneath him was a knife. He peeled his eyes open and rolled to the side, pulling it out from underneath him and staring at it dumbly for a second. It was his own knife. He shifted his hand back and felt it brush against something hard. A quick turn of the head revealed a freshly dead werewolf, silver bullet hole still pouring blood as the last of the light bled from the creature’s slitted eyes. Then warm, sturdy hands were sliding around his shoulders, pulling him forward and bringing his face less than a foot from Dean’s. A turbulent blend of emotions burned in his eyes: fear, hope, and something warm that caused Sam’s chest to ache in sympathy. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, hands slipping from Sam’s shoulder and grabbing at his waist as he rotated Sam enough to see the bit of blood seeping through his shirt. He yanked Sam’s shirt out of his waistband without flinching, examining the wound with an expression that edged on panic. 

“Yeah, Dean, I’m fine,” Sam offered, still not sure when they had begun hunting werewolves. But he couldn’t remember what he thought they should be doing, either, and as Dean let out a breath of relief and let his head drop down onto Sam’s shoulder, warm and heavy, any of his previous thoughts quickly faded to nothing but rapid heartbeats and held breath. Dean left his head there, other hand clenched in the fabric of Sam’s shirt, and Sam realized with a start that his the hand on his chest was trembling slightly. Mild concern knit his eyebrows as he raised his left hand from the floor and placed it soothingly on his brother’s back. “Hey, man, it’s okay, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” He waited for Dean to push away from him, climb to his feet and shove this moment of vulnerability behind his impervious mask. 

“I thought you were dead,” Dean said instead, voice raw as he sucked in a short breath. “When I shot him, and you both went down…I was sure…I was sure he…” His voice broke, and he twisted his head against Sam’s shoulder, taking another deep breath and exhaling it across Sam’s cheek. Sam rubbed his back in small, calming circles, before raising it to rest on the back of Dean’s neck. Recognizing the silent command, Dean slowly drew his head back, raising his eyes to meet Sam’s as he shifted. 

Sam froze. 

The expression that flooded his brother’s green eyes now was one he had never seen before, and that fact alone rendered his heart a pile of tangled knots. His stomach fluttered nervously. The fear and panic from before had been replaced with a verdant, tender warmth, warmer than relief or humor or even the strong brotherly affection he was used to. No, only two other people had ever looked at him like this, and to suddenly find it on his brother’s face, a mere six inches from his own, made his heart lurch achingly. Dean smiled at him softly for a moment, before shifting his eyes down, letting the smile slip. Then fingers were bunching tighter in Sam’s shirt, and tugging, and before he knew what was happening Dean was kissing him. 

_I’m dreaming,_ Sam found himself thinking in shock. He didn’t know where the thought came from, and found most of his thoughts slipping quickly away, bleeding into Dean’s lips, impossibly soft, against his own. He felt warmth flood his cheeks, felt the soft spikes of Dean’s hair as it slipped under the fingers that still rested on the back of his brother’s neck. Enjoying the sensation, he ran his fingers further up his neck, into the longer hairs on the back of his head. He let the knife settle against the floor with a clatter and brought his hand up to grip Dean’s wrist. Apparently encouraged by the gesture, Dean’s kiss grew hungrier, soft lips more insistent. Then he ran his tongue across Sam’s lip in a warm swipe once, then again. Sam tightened his grip on Dean’s wrist in surprise and felt a twinge of disappointment as Dean quickly backed off, expression endearingly sheepish. 

“I know,” He offered, letting out a hot breath that brushed tantalizingly across Sam’s lips, “TPO, right? I just…I’m glad you’re alright.” He cleared his throat, tips of his ears scarlet as he climbed to his feet and offered Sam a hand. “Let’s clean this place up, patch you up, and get back to the motel so we can finish what we started.” The nervous flutter of Dean’s lashes told Sam that that last bit was a question. One that Sam never thought he’d have to contemplate, since he was pretty sure the “what we started” had nothing to do with werewolves. But despite the newness of the question, he already knew his answer. 

He grabbed Dean’s hand and laughed lightly as Dean yanked him up hard enough he crashed briefly into Dean’s chest. Based on Dean’s impish grin, Sam suspected Dean had done it on purpose. “You got it.” 

 

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, the sour smell of sweat seeping up from the motel mattress beneath him. The sun beating through the curtains suggested it was late afternoon, the western sun now directly in front of the motel room. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, then took a breath and checked beneath the sheets. 

“Shit,” He muttered.


	47. Chapter 47

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face and threw a glare at the man two tables over who had resumed coughing loudly for what felt like the hundredth time, turning the page in Bobby’s journal more forcefully than was probably necessary. In the next aisle, he could hear two teenagers chattering wildly about some boy named Tommy for whom he could give a rats’ ass. He shot another pleading look at the librarian, who had been gazing dreamily at him for the last half hour. When he saw that he clearly wasn’t going to get any help, he snorted in annoyance before returning to his reading. For a library, this place was astoundingly loud. The headache from all the reading in dim light probably wasn’t helping, either. He let out a weary sigh.

He glanced at his phone briefly and did a double take as he registered the time. It was already late afternoon, which meant he had been stuck in this shitty excuse for a library for over three hours now. And yet neither Sam nor Cass had gotten in touch with him. He figured that at the very least he would have gotten a “screw you, asshole” from Sam at being ditched so suddenly. The radio silence made him a little nervous, even though he knew there was no reason for that. Sam was probably still sleeping, crashing hard after being up the last two nights with virtually no sleep. He wondered why Sam was suddenly back on his “sleep when you’re dead” kick. He remembered the last time that had happened, ages ago, when Sam would pale at the mere thought of sleep. Because every time he closed his eyes, he became a helpless victim of his nightmares. Dean could still hear Sam’s shuddering gasps as he woke in anguish as clearly as the sharp coughs still sounding to his left. The back of his throat tightened at the thought. _Was_ Sam having nightmares he wasn’t talking about? If so, Sam was going to run himself ragged avoiding them. Dean wondered briefly if he needed to go swipe some sleeping pills at the local drug store, some of that extra strength crap that would knock Sam out in minutes. Even if Sam wouldn’t take it willingly, he could find some way to slip it to him. He suddenly wondered if Sam had slept at all after he had left this morning. 

He knew Sam hadn’t gone back out to visit the other houses, since he had been doing that all day and hadn’t encountered him on those nearly abandoned country roads. Once he had exhausted Sam’s list he had contemplated hitting up the local bar, but realized that he could probably be much more productive with his time if he did some multitasking and worked on Sam’s problem instead, since Sam seemed uninterested as long as other people’s lives were at stake. Which would be all well and good, if his own life weren’t at stake as well. And if Sam wasn’t going to cover his own ass, Dean would do it for him. Someone had to watch out for him, after all. 

But just like Sam had said, Bobby’s journal hadn’t done much more than prove that witch possession was theoretically possible. None of the cases or miscellaneous spells he had recorded seemed remotely like what Endria had done to Sam, and not one made even a brief mention of sigils. Bobby had plenty of information on other types of sigils, from warding spells to memory-jogging spells to one spell that looked suspiciously like a hair-growth spell. But there was nothing on soul spells, despite Dean’s quiet hope that there would be. He tried not to feel too disappointed. It wasn’t like the man had known everything. It sure as hell had felt like it though.

A particularly shrill giggle ripped Dean from his thoughts, and he slammed the journal shut loudly enough that every person in the room jumped and eyed him guiltily. He glared. It was like they all knew they had been disturbing him, but hadn’t cared until now. He fought the urge to flip the librarian off, who stared after him as he shuffled irritably out the door. Baby sat expectantly in the parking lot, the afternoon sun catching on the silver bumper. The breath of relief that flooded his lungs as he climbed into the driver’s seat didn’t surprise him. It was good to be somewhere familiar. And quiet. 

After enjoying the silence for a few minutes, Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam. His jaw tightened as the phone cut to voicemail after the first ring. _So you’re screening me now, huh?_ Dean fought to swallow the anger that swelled hotly in his stomach. He had driven off without a word this morning. Sam had a right to be pissed. But that didn’t mean petty shit like this wouldn’t make Dean pissed right back. But instead of leaving a voicemail he’d likely regret, he hung up and dialed Cass instead. The angel picked up after the second ring. 

“Dean.” The angel’s voice came through louder than usual, followed by a round of raucous cheers that forced Dean to pull the phone away from his ear with a wince. 

“Cass?” More noise. “Cass, where are you?” 

“A bar,” The angel shouted helpfully into the phone. 

“What bar? Is Sam with you?” 

“ _Derek’s Joint_. Yes, he’s here.” Dean let out a sigh, though whether it was one of irritation or relief he wasn’t sure. 

“Well, would you tell him that he’s a dick and I’m on my way? I’ll fill you guys in on what I found when I get there.” Not that he had found much. But as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t delay on their current case to research Sam’s condition if that meant leaving Sam and Cass alone in a bar called _Derek’s Joint_. He at least had to get them to some place with a better name. 

“I can’t.” The angel said, more quietly this time. The noise in the background had subsided slightly, meaning Cass had stepped away from the counter to talk. “He’s…occupied.” 

_The hell_ , Dean thought irritably. “What do you mean?” He asked instead. “Is he with some chick?”

“No.” Cass said, confusion clear in his voice. “While he has some feminine traits, I don’t think this man has enough of them to justify being called a ‘chick.’” 

Dean felt the phone slip, fumbled it for a few seconds, set it carefully back against his ear. “Come again?” He cleared his throat and swallowed, fighting to lower his voice back to a normal octave. 

He tried to listen to Cass as he repeated himself, but only managed to catch the last few words: “…when you get here.” 

“Be there in ten,” Dean managed. The Impala pulled forward through the nearly empty parking lot and into the road faster than Dean could think, _what in the high hell is happening right now_? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.


	48. Chapter 48

Castiel could pinpoint the exact second Dean Winchester entered the bar; it wasn’t the usual flirtatious murmur that usually rolled through the female patrons whenever he appeared, nor was it the feeling of pressure the angel often associated with his friend’s daunting personality. Instead, it was the normally mundane sound of the front door slamming open, followed quickly by a series of fast-paced stomps in his direction that told him the older Winchester had arrived. Dean dropped onto the stool to his left without ceremony, sharp eyes already scanning the dimly lit room for his brother. From the borderline disheveled look of his bangs, he had been running stressed fingers through it the whole drive there. “He’s at the table in the back left corner,” Castiel offered. Dean nodded, eyes settling on Sam’s broad back as the younger brother seemed to chuckle quietly at something his companion had said. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Dean finally asked after a moment of tense silence. Cass shrugged, still not sure exactly how things had ended up like they had. He filled Dean in on what he had seen, frowning slightly at the anger he was surprised to find burning in his friend’s gaze. At least, it seemed like anger. While he had grown accustomed to most of Dean Winchester’s moods, he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was reading him correctly. The minute complexities of human emotion were still out of his depth, no matter his experience.

Dean found it difficult to pull his eyes away from his brother long enough to listen to Cass’s account of this particular….development. According to the angel, after waking up from his nap (and Dean was thankful to know that Cass had actually checked in on Sam to make sure he was, indeed sleeping) Sam had emerged looking stressed. As they were discussing details of the case, Sam had suddenly announced his desire for a drink, figuring that “Dean’d probably be doing the same thing right about now anyway.” Dean ignored the barb, knowing that on his worse days that assessment was probably more than accurate. Heck, he’d even considered it earlier himself. But his concern for Sam had won out and driven him to the library instead. 

Once he and Cass had arrived at the bar (Sam had apparently offered to go alone, but Cass had—thankfully—insisted he come along in case something happened with the mark) Sam had gotten into conversation with the bartender. After shooting Cass an apologetic look—which had done nothing but perplex him—he had made his way over to the man in the corner, who was now chatting comfortably with the younger Winchester. Sam had gotten a few drinks since then, but hadn’t given Cass another glance. 

Dean watched the younger man lean a little closer. He was a few inches shorter than Dean, deeply tanned with a thin dancer’s build, and well groomed. His dark hair had been slicked back, nearly buzzed on the sides and revealing a surprisingly friendly looking face. The whole ensemble was completed by a pair of sharp baby-blue eyes. While this guy clearly wasn’t a chick, his intentions toward Sam were as clear as day and Sam seemed completely unaware, flashing an easy smile in response to whatever he had heard. Dean wondered briefly if Sam had ever been hit on by a gay guy before; he had only ever seen older women approach him. Apparently this guy was extremely subtle, though, because usually at the first inference of physical interest, Sam would become uncomfortable and quiet. But he was showing none of those signs now. 

“…are you sure it’s…him…in there right now?” Dean finally asked, searching for something else out of the ordinary that might give him a clue one way or the other. Sitting across the bar, it definitely looked like his brother. Even the way he was holding his beer was the same, fingers steepled awkwardly on the far side as he drummed his thumbs against the bottle’s throat. Castiel just watched Dean, sure that his friend already knew his answer—no, he wasn’t sure. How could he be? Dean sighed, rubbing his fingers roughly between his temples. “Right. Well, regardless, I need a drink. I’ll see if the bartender can give me any answers in the meantime.” He shoved away from the table a little more forcefully than was probably necessary and made his way up to the counter. While it seemed much simpler to just barge up to the table and demand answers, he knew this was the tactical choice. He tried not to sulk as he flagged the bartender down. He hated not knowing what was going on. But if Sam seemed fine, as long as he kept him in his sight Dean was going to play this smart.


	49. Chapter 49

“Here, let me grab us another round,” Sam offered to his companion as he slid out of his chair, scooping up their empty beer bottles smoothly with one hand. He enjoyed the impressed look that flickered across the man’s face as he smiled back at him, blue eyes twinkling. The smugness Sam felt faded quickly as he noticed the broad, canvas-jacketed shoulders and short spiked hair leaning tensely against the bar in front of him. He searched for a reason to turn back around and reclaim his seat without new drinks, but between the desire to make a good impression and the green glare that had swiveled around almost immediately to meet his eyes, Sam realized he really didn’t have a choice. He took a measured breath before continuing his now excruciating journey to the counter. “Two more,” He said to the bartender, who tossed Dean one last judging look before nodding and snatching the empty bottles off the counter. 

“What the hell, man.” Dean started in without hesitation. The way he turned to fully face Sam without any sort of lead-in joke told Sam just how mad he was. 

“What?” Sam said as he leaned against the counter to wait, not sure if playing dumb was the right card at the moment but wanting any reason to delay the conversation that was about to begin. He could feel the tension rolling off of Dean even without looking at him. 

Dean looked wordlessly at the man at Sam’s table, then back at Sam. His lips were pressed so tightly together they had paled to blend in perfectly with his skin. For once, Sam was thankful. It was a little harder to think about kissing those lips when they were next to invisible. He shook his head at the thought, instead glancing back to throw a smile at his companion. The smile he got in response was dazzling, and he felt his groin warm appreciatively. He swallowed it down before returning his gaze to his brother. 

“Dean,” Sam finally tried, ignoring his deepening glower as his eyes darted between Sam and the other man, “I’m just working the case.” 

“Like hell you are,” Dean said sharply. He blinked twice and shook his head as if resetting himself. He leaned forward and continued, voice more subdued this time. “Just what part of that is working the case?”

Sam tried hard not to think about the rapidly reducing space between them as they argued quietly at the counter. He tried even harder not to think about the fact that the warmth from before hadn’t subsided. He glanced up to notice the barkeep was nowhere to be seen. Did he have to go to the back to get the damn beers? Just his luck. He fought to keep his breath even as he started to explain. “I was just going to come, have a drink with Cass, and get back on the case, okay, Dean?” Dean huffed in disbelief, but remained silent, watching Sam more closely than he wanted. “When I went to grab the drinks, I figured like you said I should ask around after Parker Wells, so I did. I’m investigating, Dean.” 

“So who’s the guy, then?” Dean asked impatiently, still not sure he believed a word of what he was hearing. Sam looked at him with a mix of exasperation and expectation. It almost masked the discomfort he had been wearing from the moment their eyes had met. After a tense moment of staring Sam sighed and opened his mouth to explain. 

“Everything okay here, Sam?” The man in question appeared at the younger brother’s shoulder, placing a hand gently on his bicep. Sam winced as Dean’s expression took on a whole new level of sharpness. Not only did Dean think he was just fooling around, he also knew Sam had given the man his real name. Sam thought quickly, trying to find some way to resolve the situation without punches flying at him or his newest acquaintance. 

“Parker,” Sam said a little too obviously, “No, no problem here.” He watched Dean blink again, swallowing some of the blind rage that had flooded his face seconds earlier. It throbbed under the surface again, no more than mild irritation to those who didn’t know him as well as Sam did. “Just waiting on our drinks.” As if waiting for his cue, the barkeep chose that exact moment to shuffle back into view. Parker smiled slyly and shifted a fifty dollar bill across the counter, nodding at Dean.

“Use the change to get our friend here a drink, Derek,” Parker said as the bill disappeared under the man’s meaty fingers. He gave a curt nod before slamming an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey down on the counter. While Dean was distracted by the noise, Parker gave Sam’s arm a light tug and led him back to the table. He tossed Dean a pointed look as he resumed his seat across from Sam. Sam knew better than to turn around and assess the damages. 

Once they were resituated at their table, Parker spoke. “Well that looked all sorts of complicated.”

Sam shrugged. “Nah. He’s just my partner on this case we’re working in town. He’s probably just miffed I got done with my work first. He hates working late.” 

“Right.” Parker said, blue eyes measuring Sam’s words as he held his gaze. “Please don’t get upset at me for asking, but…is it possible you two were…MORE than coworkers at some point?”

“No!” Sam blurted immediately, kicking himself afterward for being so obvious. Parker’s gaze narrowed, clearly noticing the hint of denial that had crept into Sam’s voice. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging as he looked back at his beer. 

“Why are the cute ones always taken?” He said quietly to himself, tone surprisingly sorrowful. Sam felt his heart throb in sympathy. 

“I’m not taken, I swear. He’s just a coworker. Nothing else.” He fought to keep his tone as convincing as possible. The sadness in Parker’s blue eyes faded slightly, but didn’t disappear completely. 

“If you say so,” was all he said before resuming their previous conversation. Sam fought to keep his attention on his companion, trying to drum up those feelings of attraction that had been rolling around before Dean’s unexpected appearance. But the green eyes that were slowly drilling holes in his back made it hard to even focus on conversation. Finally, when he had finally had enough, Sam climbed to his feet. Parker stopped mid-sentence, watching him with a silent question.

“You wanna get out of here?” Sam said, jerking his head at the door. 

“God, I thought you’d never ask,” He responded with a grin.


	50. Chapter 50

“…the fuck is he thinking?!” Dean nearly shouted at the angel who was currently contemplating how much longer it would take him to walk the rest of the way to the motel if he just happened to open the Impala door and roll out of the car. He realized with disappointment that Dean would probably just stop the car and make him get back in. 

“I thought he was investigating? That was the Parker we’ve been looking for.” Dean grit his teeth, not in the mood for cold logic at the moment. 

“Yeah, the Parker we suspect is involved in the ungodly amount of disappearances around here. In what universe is it a good idea to go and get into bed with the bad guy?” He took yet another left turn way too fast, slamming the angel into the car door in the process. Castiel grunted in annoyance and was ignored. He took a moment to think of what to say next, sure that providing an answer to the question Dean had just asked would not do anything to assuage the older brother’s nerves. 

Instead he offered, “Perhaps Sam was simply imitating your techniques to gather information? If he makes him more comfortable, he might let something slip.” 

“MY techniques? How the hell to do figure that?” He leaned on the horn as he pealed around a dented green SUV that wasn’t going fast enough for him. Castiel eyed Dean nervously. While he could heal both of them if an accident occurred, he wasn’t sure he had enough juice to resurrect him if something went sideways.   
“You have seduced many witnesses in past cases. How is this any different?” 

“Well, for one, I don’t seduce men! Since when has that been Sam’s bag anyway?” 

“Hasn’t he always been interested in both men and women?” Castiel realized as the older Winchester slammed on the brakes so hard he had to brace on the dash not to fly out the windshield that he had chosen his words poorly. 

“What?” Dean said. “Are you telling me you knew?” The angel stared at him for a moment, waiting for the seething rage to soften into a small inferno. Then he told Dean the truth, sure that lying at this point would only do more damage. 

“When I still had my wings, and I was…watching you both, I saw it happen from time to time.” Castiel held very still, feeling very small under Dean’s gaze despite his own superior strength. “I’m surprised he never told you.” 

“Me too.” Dean said tightly, gripping the steering wheel and staring sharply out the front windshield. Something in his chest tore, something he had been holding together for what felt like an eternity, and an unwelcome wave of familiar pain washed over him. He swallowed it down, not willing to let himself wallow in this feeling again. Not while there was a case to solve. Not while Sam had put himself in a whole other realm of danger. Dean could drink this away once everything was back to normal. Until then he had to keep his game face on.

He cleared his throat and resumed driving. “Let’s figure out where Parker lives and pay the two of them a visit.” Castiel braced on the dash again as he passed another car using the shoulder. How did Sam put up with these moods?

 

Dean was not happy to find the Wells’ house devoid of cars when he brought the Impala to a stop across the street. While that meant it was possible that Sam and that poser hadn’t hooked up yet, it also meant he had no clue where in hell Sam was. Still, not wanting to pass up the opportunity, Dean clambered out of the car, waving the awkward angel out after him. “Let’s split up and search the place. If there’s anything tying this kid to these disappearances it’s going to be here.” Castiel nodded, following Dean as he slipped around the house. While the angel had many skills, he’d never learned to pick a lock. _I guess a couple of millennia of teleporting wherever you want will do that to you._ Once inside, they separated, Castiel taking the upstairs while Dean searched the main floor. 

For such a neat looking guy, his house was a total mess. Piles of dusty moving boxes lined the hallway, some open and leaking contents like books, clothes, and shoes. Pieces of furniture were layered one in front of another, clearly disused considering the dusty dust cloths that covered all but a few pieces. Only one chair, which sat completely clear of dust had seen any recent use. There was more evidence of life in the kitchen, a dirty pan and coffee cup in the sink. Dean huffed in disgust. He may not be a neat freak, but he knew better than to let dishes sit; the smell alone would stink up the air inside for weeks. 

Another ten minutes told Dean that there was nothing of note on this floor. Even the piles of paperwork that sat haphazardly on the coffee table in the living room gave him no help. A couple of the contracts matched houses he had searched, but others were contract completed by other agents, in cities completely outside the reach of the local real estate agency. Sam had already checked records of disappearances with recent contracts from their expanded branches and had come up empty, so he had disregarded them as a possibility. And with the time constraint they now faced with so many rapid-fire disappearances, Dean wasn’t willing to argue. Sam’s gut was pretty accurate when it came to data analysis. Occasionally he missed things in the lore, but as this had been nothing but cold hard information Dean was pretty sure he knew what he was talking about. 

He nearly flew out of his skin when he turned around and found Cass standing over him, less than a foot away. “Jesus, Cass! I thought getting your wings clipped meant you had to walk like a normal person!”

“I did. But you didn’t turn around when I called you.” Dean colored slightly. How deeply into his thoughts had he fallen, to lose that kind of spatial awareness? He fought to keep his composure. The angel looked unfazed. “There is a locked room upstairs. I believe what we need may be inside.” Dean stood and followed him immediately, lockpicks at the ready. 

A minute or so of fiddling with the lock and he was in. He marveled briefly at the lock’s difficulty. Not just anyone could have pulled that lock-picking job off. Inside the room stood an office, one that looked severely out of date compared to the rest of the house. A quick glance at a few of the papers told him that this office had actually belonged to Parker’s father, Damien. Had Parker locked the office away after his father’s Death? _Creepy_. 

After about twenty minutes of rifling through drawers and old files to no avail, Dean felt his hand brush against a soft piece of leather. With careful fingers, he pulled a journal from a false compartment at the back of one of the desk drawers. _Bingo_. He glanced at the date on the first journal entry: 1924. Skimming the first few entries told him that this journal had actually belonged to Parker’s great grandfather Patrick, started after his marriage but before the birth of his first and only son, Heath Carson Wells. It was slow reading, the kind of thing Dean would usually pass off to Sam if he were actually doing his job, but Dean struggled through it, determined to find the answer he knew hid somewhere in these pages. 

He was just about to give up when a name caught his eye. He froze, jumping back a paragraph to make sure he had read it completely. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed.


	51. Chapter 51

Sam wasn’t sure where everything had gone sideways. Sure, he was messed up in the head over his brother thanks to the witch riding shotgun in his brain, and it wasn’t like he had ever had anything in the luck department. His whole life had been a series of wrong turns and horrible mistakes, so it wasn’t that surprising he had been dealt yet another bad hand. But reconciling that thought with the smell of smoke and gasoline as he came to was easier said than done. His right shoulder throbbed threateningly, probably dislocated considering he could barely twist in his seat to look around. 

From where he was lying, he could see the debris that had formerly been Parker’s white mustang scattered about the highway above. Were they in a ditch? He tried to move his left arm, intending to push himself carefully off the glass and dirt that littered what he now saw was once the car’s roof, and found instead to his surprise that a hand was locked tightly around his wrist. With considerable effort he turned his head to find Parker stretched out, twisted awkwardly around the driver’s seat and astonishingly uninjured. From his limp shoulders, he was probably either sleeping or unconscious. Sam gave his fingers an experimental tug, to no avail. 

The sharp tang of the gasoline and a sudden hiss cut through the cloud of shock that had been padding his ears like cotton. He shook Parker with a grunt, pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to drag both of them out of the wreckage with his right shoulder out of commission. But when Parker didn’t budge and the flames outside grew suddenly brighter, Sam realized he probably didn’t have a choice. Wrenching his wrist out of Parker’s grip, he instead hooked his left arm around his chest and dragged, silently apologizing for the glass shards that were probably scratching his legs all to hell. Using his right arm as leverage was excruciating, but without another option Sam had no choice but to grit his teeth and try not to pass out. He was thankful the door had been ripped off his side of the car, making their escape relatively easy. Once out of range of the car he collapsed, Parker’s prone form draped unceremoniously over his knee. Sam didn’t even have the energy to shift away. 

He was pulling out his phone when sirens sounded in the distance. With the amount of light the fire of the wreck was generating, he wasn’t surprised it had already been spotted and called in. After considering his options, he decided the best one would be to leave Parker here and flee on foot himself. He wasn’t so injured that he needed a hospital, and since he had no memory of how they had ended up upside down in the ditch in the first place, he figured it was better to get out of there for now. He slid Parker onto the ground and climbed to his feet, startled by how blinding the fire just became. 

“No!” Parker suddenly shrieked, coming to and wrapping his fingers tightly around Sam’s ankle. Sam blinked, surprised. Why was his head so fuzzy? Even when injured, he was usually able to avoid something like that. And why had that brightness suddenly subsided? He stared dumbly at Parker, who looked like he was now sobbing on the ground, Sam’s leg clutched tightly to his chest. 

“Parker.” Sam said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Parker, can you stand?” With a sniffle and a nod, Parker slowly clambered to his feet, adjusting his handhold on Sam so that he maintained contact the whole time. When he was finally standing, he hooked his elbow tightly through Sam’s left arm. Sam winced as he came in contact with the mark, and tried to pull his arm away. 

“No, Sam, you can’t!” Parker shouted again, voice edging on raw panic. Sam just looked at him dumbly. “Look at your hands, Sam.” He said with a sob, once neat hair now flopping around wildly on his head. Sam obliged, taking in a series of rust red smudges on his skin and clothes. _Oh. Oh shit._ Parker nodded in agreement with his unvoiced thoughts. “If I let you go now, you’ll disappear, Sam. You’ll disappear forever.”


	52. Chapter 52

Sam had to spend several minutes calming Parker down before he could convince him to move. He felt his stress grow with each second that passed, not wanting to get caught like this by the local fire department that likely knew each and every person in the town and surrounding area. To find their prize real estate agent and heir blubbering in a strangers arms would likely draw a lot of attention. And attention was the last thing Sam wanted while working this case. Finally, when Parker had calmed down enough to respond to simple yes and no questions, Sam calmly directed him from the scene, slipping into the woods for a little additional cover. He tried his best to lead them over drier ground, angling toward the stream he could hear gurgling in the distance. Parker kept a vice grip on his arm, as if letting go of him would mean the end of the world. Sam wondered briefly if he was calm enough yet to answer some questions. It was clear from his reaction earlier that he knew exactly what those red smudges were. And based on the mixture of fear and guilt in his eyes, it seemed he had something to do with it, too. 

Once they had sloshed upstream for a mile or so, Sam led them out on the opposite bank and sat Parker down on a stump. He knew Dean was probably listening to the scanner and on his way to the scene at that very moment, and knew that he owed Dean a call to assuage his nerves. But that would mean giving away his location, and with the hostility he had shown Parker earlier, Sam wasn’t sure he’d be able to get any answers out of the man once his brother appeared. Watching the sniffling mess in front of him, Sam had to admit that any attraction he might have had for the guy had quickly dwindled to none. Sure, he was cute, but the moment for a light fling had come and gone. Sam was rarely in the mood for that sort of thing anyway. He was usually too worried about something in his and Dean’s life to focus on anything else. 

“Parker,” Sam tried, wishing he could stand up and separate himself from the tight fingers on his left arm. The mark burned sharply beneath the contact. Parker took a shaky breath and raised his eyes to Sam’s. Even when tear-streaked the man had a handsome face, and Sam had to acknowledge that, whether he was still interested or not, he had pretty good taste. “Parker, I need you to explain what you said earlier.” Parker whimpered, apparently still too overwhelmed to answer such an abstract question. Sam sighed and tried again. “You’ve seen these red smudges before. And the red light that comes with them.” 

Parker nodded, averting his gaze. Sam narrowed his. “I’m guessing you’ve seen them a lot.” After a tense pause, Parker nodded again. Sam heard the sirens shut off near the crash and glanced at his watch. He needed to call Dean soon. No time to beat around the bush. “Parker, did you do this?” He gestured to himself, glancing down and examining the red smudges that covered almost every inch of him. 

“No. I don’t do it on purpose.” Sam opened his mouth, but Parker continued before he could speak. “It happens around me, whenever I need something or want something. I get what I wish for, but the people are the price. I try not to wish, but…everybody wants things. I can’t just shut that off.” His face twisted in pain, and despite the confession at his feet Sam felt his heart twinge in sympathy. “It happened around my father too, and my grandfather, but nowhere near as much as me.” Sam watched him silently. Just based on what he had heard, he had absolutely no clue what was going on here. There weren’t any creatures he knew of that granted their own wishes. And it was even less likely that they did it without knowing how. But Parker seemed to be seriously hurting over the disappearances, and based on the way he was holding onto Sam, he was doing everything he could to prevent it from happening again. Sam swallowed, already knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question. 

“If you let go of me, what’s going to happen?” Parker tightened his grip immediately, and Sam had to admit with a grimace that despite his soft looks he had some muscle on him. “You said I would disappear, right?” Parker nodded again. Sam changed his line of questioning. “How did the car end up in the ditch, Parker?”

“You don’t remember?” Parker asked, sounding hurt. Sam just shrugged and shook his head. Parker swallowed and began rubbing at his head as he spoke. “We were just chatting, driving to a house up the road to, well, you know…” He cleared his throat and colored slightly. “I remember accidentally thinking how much I wanted someone like you in my life, and before I knew it that red light started shining out of you. That’s how it takes people, it lights them up from the inside and…well, it looks like it burns them away. All that’s left are those red smudges.” He shook his head, staring at his fingers. “I just…I panicked. I let go of the wheel and grabbed onto you, and….well, you saw.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said gravely, “Your car was a mess.” He heaved a sigh. “Did you know that grabbing onto me would stop the process?” 

Parker shook his head. “No.” 

“Well,” Sam said with a thankful breath. “Regardless, I ‘m thankful you did.” 

 

Dean had almost crushed his phone in his fist by the time Sam called. He turned his back on the wreckage, unwilling to look at the sports car’s corpse any longer. “Sam. You okay? Where the hell are you?” 

“I’m alright, considering,” Sam’s voice said through the receiver. While he sounded fine enough, there was a note in his voice that set off warning bells in Dean’s head. 

“Considering what?” He said tensely. Did they have a body to bury? Were they going to have to skip town? He didn’t know if Parker’s death would actually resolve the situation, or if they’d have to track down his next of kin. He wanted to fill Sam in on all he had found, but wasn’t going to do so until he was sure Sam was alright. 

“Well, there have been some, um…complications with the case. Parker’s still alive, though. He’s with me. I’ll fill you in back at the motel. Could you just smooth things over as well as you can at the wreck, meet us in a couple of hours?” Before he could even get in a word of response, Sam ended the call. _That little shit,_ Dean thought before he could stop himself. They were going to have words later, and Sam would just have to deal with it. He sighed and put on his best professional smile, wondering just how he should spin this to assuage some nerves.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *to those who are up to date, timelines are going to seem a little off compared to the canon universe. A detailed description of why can be found in the comments at the end. **don't read if you don't want spoilers!!!

It took Dean closer to three hours to persuade local law enforcement that the car’s owner had not, in fact, been kidnapped. It took a lot of lies on his end and he knew that even if law enforcement believed him for now, if Parker didn’t appear alone and unharmed in the next few hours they were going to have to ditch town exceedingly fast. Hopefully they could solve the case before then. Dean let out a breath as he pulled into the motel lot, bracing himself for Sam’s “complication.” While he knew he should be glad that Sam still seemed to be walking and talking, something thrummed nervously in the pit of his stomach. He was tired of worrying like this, but he had to accept the fact that as long as they were doing this job, worry was just a part of the package deal. 

The thrumming increased when he entered the motel room to find Cass alone, waiting in the same spot Dean had left him. “Where’s Sam?” He asked the angel. 

Castiel wore his same look of unreadable confusion. “He hasn’t come back yet.” Dean swore and pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping his foot anxiously as the phone rang. 

“I’m on my way,” Sam’s warbled voice said through the receiver. _Must be far away to have such a rough signal_ , Dean thought with a frown. 

“What’s keeping you? It’s not that hard to lose a couple of small town tails, is it?” 

Sam laughed softly. “Hey, you’d think, but current circumstances have complicated that a bit. Don’t flip out, Dean,” Sam said as Dean quickly inhaled to voice his repeated concerns, “We’ll be there in the next thirty minutes. I’ve shaken them, just making our way back to town now.”

“Well, can you at least explain what’s so damn complicated? It’s not cool to leave me in the dark, man.” 

“I’m not, Dean. I just…” He pitched his voice lower, so low that Dean had to strain his ears to hear. “Talking about the details might freak Parker out, and I kind of need him right now, as calm and quiet as he can be. Once we’re there, we’ll talk. I promise.” Dean felt his lip curl in distaste at Sam’s “need him” line but held his tongue.

“Thirty minutes. Then I’m coming for you, fine or not.” Sam just huffed before the line cut off with a dry click. Dean resisted the urge to chuck his phone. Instead he started thumbing through his contacts, holding the phone away from himself instinctually as the three digits scrolled into view. 

“I thought we were going to call him after we came up with a plan with Sam?” Castiel said from the bed, expression nearly the same as before save a quirked brow. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say there was also a displeased curl to the corners of his mouth, deepening his usual frown. 

“Yeah, change of plan. We’re going to deal with this now, and Sam can catch up on his own time.” He took a breath, glared at the phone one last time, and pressed “call now.” 

 

Dean nearly swore when the phone rang through. “Pick up the damn phone, you dick.” He dialed again immediately, and whipped around as Sir Mix-a-Lot began shouting about butts from the shadows surrounding the motel room door. Dean felt his lip curl as the man stepped into the dim light of the room, cutting the song short with a swipe of his fingers and eyeing Dean with a playful smirk as he animatedly smoothed the imaginary wrinkles out of the front of his suit. 

“You know, when your date screens your call, it’s in bad taste to keep calling over and over. Makes you seem desperate.” He winked at the older Winchester, who glared silently at him in response. Crowley pretended to sigh wearily as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “Now, just what brings the mighty Winchester knocking on my door? What with my new problems in my kingdom and your charming death threat upon our last separation, it’s not like I have much of a reason to be here, now do I?”

Dean snorted. “Then why’d you come?” 

Crowley chuckled softly. “Let’s call it ‘curiosity,’ shall we?” Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel snorted, standing at full attention by his previous perch on the bed. Crowley eyed him appraisingly for a moment before waving his hand in the air and returning his attention to Dean. “Well, by all means, do get on with it!” 

Dean suddenly wasn’t so sure about this plan. But thanks to the journal he had found, he knew that the only person who knew all the answers to their current case now stood right in front of him. The only question now was how to get them. 

“Does this ring any bells?” Dean asked casually, tossing the old leather-bound thing to the demon across the room, unwilling to walk any closer. He caught it dexterously in one hand, rifling quickly through the pages in that calculating way of his that always set Dean’s teeth on edge. After a few tense moments of silence, Crowley laughed, apparently finding the same passage Dean had found. 

“Ah, Patrick. Of course! I remember this contract like the back of my hand! Man knew how to write a contract. Nearly put my own work to shame! Though, to gain a salesman like him I would have done this and much more. My end of the bargain was nothing but a little leg work, an absolute steal for the contracts he’s brought in since.” Crowley patted his stomach with satisfaction, no doubt silently congratulating himself on his successful recruitment. He eyed Dean knowingly. “It’s unfortunate business, but if you’re asking for help on this case I’m afraid I can’t oblige. Patrick made sure to include a clause that we couldn’t touch his family as long as the artifact in question remained active. Which, as you can see from all these unfortunate disappearances, it is.” 

Dean laughed, pulling his face into a smirk to match the King of Hell’s. “Now, I’m sure a cunning businessman like you wouldn’t just let a client get their whole family out of jail free? Where’s the fun in that?” 

Crowley watched him quietly, clearly assessing the current situation to find the path that would benefit himself most. After a moment his face cracked into an eerie smile. “Do I hear what I think I do? An offer of assistance? Now Dean, what happened to all those years of moral high grounds and sticks up your ass?” He laughed. “To brass tacks, then. If—I help you—I’ll need something in return. What are you willing to—“He cut his sentence off short, head swiveling to the door behind him. “What in damnation is that horrid stench?”


	54. Chapter 54

“What in damnation is that horrid stench?” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose as he turned to face the motel room door at his back. Dean sniffed the air cautiously, not smelling anything except for the usual stale armpit stink that lingered in most cheap motel rooms. But the room wasn’t what had gotten his attention.

Dean glanced questioningly at Cass, who was now watching Crowley with a look less like disgust and more like caution. The demon strode purposefully to the door and threw it wide, stepping out into the dark with a deep sniff. Castiel followed him out, eyes trained unerringly on his back. Dean, not wanting to miss whatever was happening, did the same. Crowley and the angel stood side by side, facing the street that connected to the motel parking lot. In the distance, Dean could see an awkward shadow shuffling toward them. A few tense moments of silence brought the shadow under the beam of the nearest streetlight, revealing a dirty and bedraggled Sam. That little snot Parker had latched himself aggressively onto Sam’s left arm, was clearly taking a toll on the younger brother considering the grimace that was glued to his face. 

Without warning, Crowley burst out laughing, a hearty laugh that Dean didn’t think he’d heard before. The unbridled amusement in his voice made Dean’s hair stand on end. A quick glance at Castiel told Dean the angel was equally wary of the unexpected sound. “What?” Dean said eloquently, looking from the demon to the angel to his brother down the street, who had just noticed that they had company. 

“Looking good, Samantha! I see you’ve finally learned to accessorize like your older brother!” He said between giggles. Castiel suddenly turned stiff, frozen as he watched the younger Winchester approach. Dean realized with a lurch that the angel’s expression was one of deep concern, eyebrows almost obscuring his eyes. Something more was wrong here, something he couldn’t see. He swore inwardly. Whatever Sam’s “complication” was, it was apparently bad. 

“Crowley,” Sam growled as he came closer, wincing as Parker wrapped his fingers even tighter around his arm. Crowley threw a mocking bow in his direction, which was received with a snort. Dean ignored their exchange, instead closing the distance between him and his brother with purposeful steps, ready to pry the bitch hurting his brother off. 

Then he saw the smudges. 

The red, dusty smudges that covered Sam’s face, clothes, hands, and shoes. It even coated his hair in thick red patches. He felt the warmth drain from his face and headed straight for Parker with a hiss, reaching for his gun as he approached. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?!” Dean shouted, flipping off the safety and aiming the silver barrel between the man’s widening, teary eyes. “Get your fucking hands off of him!” Sam’s eyes widened at Dean’s liberal use of expletives; usually he saved words like that for the rarest of occasions. Based on the expression on Crowley’s face, Sam wasn’t the only one who was surprised. But Sam didn’t have time to process that; the cold steadiness of Dean’s aim told him that if he didn’t do something quickly, Parker would become nothing more than a cooling corpse; what Sam would become at that point he didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

“No, Dean, wait!” Sam said, turning so that Parker was shielded behind him. Parker’s grip must have tightened even further because Sam hissed briefly in pain, throwing him an annoyed glance. He returned his attention to his brother, whose green eyes were nearly glowing, illuminated by the swirl of emotions boiling inside him. 

“Move out of the way, Sam.” Dean’s voice was tight and low, the kind of voice that made Sam itch to obey without question. But Dean didn’t know the situation. He swallowed, holding Dean’s gaze as he placed himself fully between Parker and the gun. 

“No, Dean, listen.” Sam said quietly, fighting the absurd urge to avert his gaze as Dean’s burned into him. Dean ignored the request, turning to walk around Sam and get Parker clearly in his sights. Sam shifted in sync, keeping Parker behind him with ease. “Please!” Sam said, trying to pour the urgency of the situation into his voice. Dean paused, stung by the hurt in Sam’s voice, the desperation in his gaze. Just what was he doing wrong? Clearly the man cowering behind his little brother was the one responsible for this whole mess. And here Sam was, protecting him like some damned damsel in distress! He growled, unable to voice his frustrations properly. 

“I’d listen to your girlfriend, Squirrel,” Crowley purred, amusement still dripping from his voice. Dean recoiled as the King of Hell placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“And why the hell should I?” Dean asked as he turned to face the demon, getting the untrustworthy slime ball back in his sights. The smirk that sat comfortably on the demons lips made Dean’s blood boil, but the knowing and unnervingly somber light in his eyes drained the blood from his face. He repeated the question, mad at himself for taking the bait but unable to leave it be. 

“I think it best we all talk inside, where your brother and his date can get a little more comfortable.” He said the last word with emphasis, eyeing the older Winchester with quiet interest. Dean hadn’t even rolled his eyes at the insinuation in his earlier comment. He felt a smile tug at his lips when the older brother tensed. 

“Shut up, Crowley,” Sam said, slamming his shoulder into the smirking demon as he strode past him and into the room. Dean quickly closed his mouth, which had just opened to argue and followed them, Castiel at his back. Crowley chuckled and brought up the rear, pulling the door shut behind them. There had clearly been some intriguing developments in his absence. 

“Now spit it out,” Dean said, standing against the half wall that separated the entryway from the beds. His arms were crossed so tightly that the veins that crisscrossed them bulged against the skin.

“Before that, my terms.” Crowley said with a flourish, pulling a silver ring with a gaudy red stone off his finger and polishing it on his sleeve. Dean growled, not interested in this asshole’s games with Sam just a few feet away covered in those horrendous smudges. The demon continued, ignoring the interruption. “If I help you, I get to walk away from here, safely, with the artifact.”

Sam looked at Dean with a silent question and was ignored. “No deal,” Dean said.

Crowley sighed with exaggeration. “Well, then it was nice _not_ working with you.” He turned and headed for the door, flashing his teeth in a mocking smile. He patted Castiel on the shoulder and paused as he rested his hand on the doorknob, turning to face the room with a look of false remorse. “And Sam, believe it or not, I _will_ miss you when Dean finally pries the Wells’ heir apparent over there off of you and inadvertently sends you to oblivion. Bring a coat! I’ve heard it’s cold there this time of the year.” He opened the door with one last nod. “Well, everyone, all the best to you! Until we meet again.”

“Wait,” Dean said, eyes on Parker’s hands that were still all over his little brother. “Oblivion…? What do you…” He looked Sam sharply in the eye. “What is he talking about, Sam?” Sam’s lips tightened grimly, and Dean wondered how much lower his stomach could drop. 

“He’s telling the truth,” Parker said, words bouncing off the tense silence that now filled the room as all eyes shifted onto him. He started to describe the moments before the accident, everything he had told Sam and more, babbling nervously as he played with the fabric of Sam’s shirt sleeve. Dean had to keep moving his gaze from those fingers back to his face, fists clenching more and more as the words poured out. Parker described several other disappearances, talking until finally Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He burst out laughing, the same unnerving laugh he had used before. 

He wiped the tears from his eyes with a knuckle as he spoke. “One more chance, Dean. Let me leave with the artifact, and I’ll help you save your dear Sam. I don’t think there’s a better offer on the table here.” His tone was sharper now, more business-like. 

“Like hell. No deal,” Sam said sharply just as Dean said, “Fine.” Sam’s head turned sharply to look at Dean, who was staring back at Sam with an unreadable expression. 

“Dean,” Sam warned. Dean waved him off, turning to face the demon again, hand extended to shake on the terms. Crowley grinned and crossed the room in five large strides, wrapping his fingers around the older Winchester’s. Once he let go, Dean wiped his hand on his jacket. 

“Now talk,” Dean said tersely, staring at the red smudges along Sam’s cheekbone. 

“Gladly.” Crowley eyed Castiel, who was watching Dean with a look of bewilderment. Sam wore an identical expression, mouth hanging slightly agape. Parker was simply glancing between everyone in the room, completely out of his depth. Crowley sighed quietly. Apparently Patrick’s skillset had not been inherited. Crowley directed his next sentence at the angel. “Have you heard of the Star of Inanna? I’m sure one of your featherbrained commanders must have told you at least in passing, seeing as it played a huge part in some of those earlier civilizations you all had to babysit.” 

Castiel grunted. “Yes. Though Heaven’s vernacular term was the ‘foundation of empires.’” 

“How original,” Crowley muttered with a snort. “Alright, so for all of the other morons in the class, let me give you a brief rundown of what you’re dealing with here.” He strolled over to Parker and gestured to him as if he were a PowerPoint presentation. “This sniveling little sack of snot is the fourth generation beneficiary of one of the most powerful artifacts ever created by man. Well, man, demon, and the extricated heart of a demi-god, but that’s not what we’re here to learn about today.” He sighed, turning to face Sam who despite his best efforts was actually intrigued at the new lore he was learning. He schooled his expression into one of detached interest as Crowley continued.

“The Star of Inanna grants the user and all of their descendants’ unbound fortune, success, and power. It was thanks to this artifact that most of the most successful ancient civilizations you humans study today made it as far as they did. Patrick found out about it in just such a study, but was clever enough to let yours truly fetch it for him. But one thing his notes didn’t tell him was that in order to have that kind of limitless success, there’s a price. It costs not just a life or a body, not just a soul, but someone’s entire existence.” Crowley rubbed two fingers together, a greedy light flickering in his beady black eyes. “And unfortunately for you, Samantha, you’re name’s at the top of that list. Your sidepiece’s cuddly nature is probably the only thing keeping you…well, _real_.”


	55. Chapter 55

“Wait a minute, that doesn’t make any sense,” Sam said, eyes narrowed as he reviewed the information in his head. “If it costs your existence, doesn’t that erase things like memories, pictures, records, things like that?” 

Crowley stepped closer, patting Parker on the shoulder as one would tap their hands on a piece of furniture. Parker tensed but did not recoil, determined to keep his grip on Sam. _Well, I’ll give him an A for effort,_ the demon thought as he eyed him one more time. Maybe the kid had more spunk than he had originally given him credit for. Filing that thought away, Crowley returned his attention to Sam’s question, an unreadable light slowly growing in his eyes. 

“That would make sense, except this artifact doesn’t make it so that you never existed. We’d probably have the ancient Assyrian empire as a ruling power today if it had operated on that principle. No, the artifact simply converts all of the time you might have existed from that moment on and converts that into energy. Now, back when two wheeled chariots were the fashion statement of the day, it was easier to cover disappearances like that up. Even up to the 1930s, people were more than willing to write someone’s disappearance off as any number of things. But now, now you have things like the internet to catalogue each and every person’s miserable existence. Which is why it was doubly unfortunate that this limitless luck was then inherited by Wells Jr here.” He glanced at Parker, who was now looking at him with sudden understanding and horror. _Boy’s a quick study too! Maybe there’s potential for him after all,_ the for-now fugitive King of Hell thought appraisingly. Once Hell’s official business had been concluded, he was definitely coming back. 

“So this star thing has been using up more people because I’m naturally unlucky, right?” Parker finally said, voice surprisingly calm compared to his teary performance earlier. His fingers loosened from Sam’s arm slightly, and he straightened as he looked Crowley directly in the eyes. Sam eyed him with surprise and a bit of respect. Not only had he figured out that something supernatural was happening around him; he had also accepted a conversation that threw most people into a raging fit of denial without flinching and had added his own valuable information to the table. Crowley raised an eyebrow as he nodded, clearly impressed. 

“Great, so now we know all this crap about the thing, but how do we save Sam? Because I’m not having this…” _bitch_ , he thought, “…Random dude clinging to my brother for the rest of his life. And seriously, how do we even know that he’s what’s keeping Sam alive?” Dean said sharply, gaze on Sam’s face as the younger Winchester continued to watch Parker who was still meeting Crowley’s gaze. 

“Dean,” Crowley purred, rolling his head smoothly to face the older Winchester who hadn’t moved from his perch. He had grown more and more tense and now resembled a marbled statue, eyes two chips of jade ice. “Jealously becomes no one; you’d best remember that.” When Dean didn’t rise to the comment with a smart retort, the King of Hell’s smile widened. “If you’re so skeptical, how about a demonstration?”

And with that he ripped Parker from Sam’s arm and flung him across the room, where he slammed loudly into the far wall and slid to the floor like a rag doll, out cold. 

Immediately Sam felt the world rolling away, the sensation oddly familiar to the one he had experienced moments before the explosion in the motel room. Heat rolled through him from the tips of his fingers up his arms and into his chest, leaving nothing but numbness in its wake. Sound vanished instantly, followed very quickly by smell and taste. The last to fade was vision; he saw Dean shove off from the wall and start toward him, saw the shadow of Castiel’s cape as he moved somewhere in Sam’s periphery, and then nothing as blinding light burned behind his eyes and began to swallow him whole. 

Then the mark in his shoulder began to thrum with energy, exactly like it had done in that motel room a few weeks ago. Sam focused on the sensation, hoping that if nothing else that stupid mark would keep him from disappearing. He felt familiar fingers wrap around his right wrist, warm and rough, and focused on that too. He couldn’t leave Dean alone like this. Not when he hadn’t even told him that—

_Now now, that’s enough of that, Sam._ Endria chimed in, and this time Sam swore he could almost see her shining black curls and bright red lipstick flickering in the shadow of his closed eyelids. _I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is the worst moment you could have chosen for this. Come back later, when I’m not fighting to keep you in this godforsaken realm._

_Well, what a surprise. I knew you had a hitchhiker, Moose,_ Crowley’s rough voice interjected, mirth clear in his tone. _How on earth did you get yourself into this mess within a mess? I could smell her severed soul from half a mile away! And based on the stench, she’s a veteran, is she not?_

_Meddlesome thing,_ Endria replied with a sigh. _You’ll have to answer him, dear. He can only sense my presence. He can’t hear me._

Sam had no clue what was going on. _…Yes,_ Sam thought at Crowley with resignation as he sent a mental image of a middle finger to Endria. Based on Crowley’s chuckle he must have received the second message as well. 

_I thought as much. You’re wading dangerous waters, Sam,_ Crowley thought, tone suddenly very somber compared to his earlier teasing. Sam felt his stomach roll at the demon’s use of his actual name, instead of one of his many pet names. _Whatever she’s set as the trigger for this spell, you’re exceedingly close to it. And if the inflictor is who I think she is, you are very much in trouble. Take care not to activate it any further, or this Star of Inanna business will be the least of your and your brother’s worries._

_How sweet,_ Endria said condescendingly. _It seems you charm every man you come across. But I think it’s time for you to wake back up now. I’ll take a raincheck for the moment, but I WILL be back. I look forward to it._

The world reappeared in a whirlwind of sensation. The first thing he managed to distinguish from the overwhelming chaos was the crushing weight on his chest, followed by the dull ache of his right arm and the pulsing of the mark on his left, stretching all the way up to his ear. The mattress pressed into his back just like the one at the motel had, save the broken spring. He felt several hands on him, and warm puffs of breath that rolled across his neck in time with the heavy panting that nearly deafened him in his right ear. Between the breaths, he heard Dean’s blessedly familiar voice calling his name hoarsely. He pried his eyes open with great effort and took in the older Winchester’s face, which hovered inches from his own. One of his hands was still latched onto his right wrist. The other cradled the back of his neck, fingers curled protectively at the nape to keep his head from tipping further backward. “Dean,” Sam managed, finding his voice strangely alien, deeper and softer than he had ever heard it. 

Warm relief and something else Sam couldn’t place flooded Dean’s gaze, drowning the cold anger that had been frozen there since their run-in with the homeless man that morning. “Thank God,” Dean managed, voice cracking on the last syllable and belaying his nerves. He hugged Sam’s head briefly to his chest, took a steadying breath, and finally pulled him into a sitting position as he pulled away, ice quickly returning to his quickly cooling green eyes. “You black-eyed bastard,” He growled as he advanced on Crowley, who Sam could now see was pinned to the wall by a furious looking Castiel. The sensation of hands remained on Sam’s left arm, and he turned to see Parker, still out cold, but with fingers wrapped lightly around his elbow. Sam sighed and took Parker’s hand in his, not wanting a repeat of what he had just experienced. Dean must have hauled the unconscious man across the room to save him. Again. How many times had Dean pulled his ass out of the fire by now? Sam couldn’t even count. 

“Like I said, a demonstration,” Crowley grunted through a crushed windpipe, attempting to straighten his suit as if he weren’t currently under threat. “But he’s fine, as you can see. Isn’t that right, Moose?” He asked, eyeing Sam with a knowing expression. Sam sighed. So it hadn’t been a dream, then. 

“Who do you think she is?” Sam asked instead of replying, drawing sharp looks from both Dean and Castiel. Crowley sighed. 

“So much for subtlety. I tell you what, let’s solve this little case of yours, and then I’ll answer all your worthless little questions.” He said breezily, as if he were commenting on the weather outside. Sam opened his mouth to argue when Parker stirred, eyelashes fluttering as he came slowly to. 

“Sam! You’re okay!” Parker gasped as he pushed himself into a sitting position and wrapped an arm around Sam in an awkward half hug. Sam smiled and patted Parker on the back, fighting the desire to fidget under the roomful of eyes that were now on them. Dean had his mouth open, no doubt ready to ask after what Crowley had said. Sam shook his head as faintly as possible, trying to communicate with his eyes that now really wasn’t the time to discuss it. Not in front of the entire room at least. Dean held his gaze for a solid ten seconds before he finally nodded, agreeing to drop it for the time being. 

“Now that we’ve all expressed our sexual tensions, let’s get this soap opera rolling again, shall we?” Crowley asked. Sam murmured his reluctant consent and Dean glowered as he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, a silent request to stand down. Castiel shoved his nose right up into Crowley’s face for a moment before he finally stepped away and released him. The angel then placed himself firmly between the bed where Sam and Parker sat and Crowley, who had wisely chosen to remain by the far wall this time. “Thank you,” Crowley said, dusting himself off. “Now, as for how to stop the artifact in its tracks? The answer is simple.” He pointed at Parker, who was watching the demon as if he was expecting something. Sam had a bad feeling as Crowley opened his mouth. 

“Kill him.”


	56. Chapter 56

“If that was going to work, then why did you stop me the first time?” Dean said in annoyance. Sam stared at him. Why wasn’t he even flinching at the idea of killing someone? Inherited blessing or no, Parker had done nothing to deserve such a cold, calloused response. He wished he could see Dean’s face, to see just what he was thinking. This kind of thing was extremely unlike him. 

“The first time, I didn’t know exactly what Moose’s chances of survival were. I assumed it was better to test that before we permanently removed the one thing keeping him here from the equation. But thanks to that handy little curse he’s sporting, I can confidently say he has a much higher chance of making it out of this newest curse unscathed.” 

“How much of a chance?” Parker asked, drawing everyone’s eyes onto him. Crowley, to everyone else’s surprise, remained quiet as he watched him. Parker’s gaze didn’t flinch. “How much of a chance are we talking about here? This is too important to use such ambiguous language.” 

“It doesn’t matter, because there’s no way we’re going to go through with that. Right, Dean?” Sam asked, trying to hold his brother’s gaze. But Dean wouldn’t look at him, the conflict in his thoughts visible in the knots forming in his eyebrows.

Parker spoke instead. “If I know it’ll save you, Sam, I’ll do it myself.” He squeezed Sam’s hand as their eyes met, soft determination clear in his blue-eyed stare. Then he returned his gaze to the demon. Sam just stared at Parker, astounded that a few hours before he had thought Parker was little more than a pretty but spineless wimp. 

“50-50.” Crowley said without ceremony, gaze a little too thoughtful for Sam’s comfort as he watched the younger man stare him down. 

“That’s not a higher chance, that’s a gamble!” Dean said angrily. “There’s no way you’re going to gamble with Sam’s life like that!”

“Is there another way?” Parker asked quietly, still somehow unshaken by the topic of his own murder. Crowley continued to watch him for a moment, mouth slightly ajar as the room waited tensely for him to answer. 

“Dammit, Crowley,” Dean said, rounding on the demon who seemed to be taking his sweet time deciding Sam’s fate. Not like that was anything new, but with Sam’s life already on the line he didn’t have the time for patience. 

Crowley waved him off, ignoring the growl of frustration he got in response. After a moment of tense silence, he spoke again, eyes still on Parker. “A little too selfless for my tastes, but I like you. You’re smart, and you ask all the right questions. And you straddle that line between brave and stupid just like these boneheads you’ve fallen into unfortunate company with.” Sam tensed, tightening his grip on Parker’s fingers. He knew that look in the King of Hell’s gaze; that was the look of a dog with a big juicy bone sitting right on the edge of the kitchen counter. And if he was reading him correctly, instead of the artifact, Parker had become that bone. “How about we make a deal?” 

“Not a chance,” Sam said, shifting in an attempt to obscure Parker from view. He glanced at Dean for help, only to find him staring at the bedspread with a troubled expression. “Dean, a little help here?” 

Dean started at that, shifting his gaze first to Sam, then Parker, and then finally to Crowley, who was waiting for a response with a knowing smile on his lips. “Like hell we’re gonna let you make a deal with a human right in front of us.” Dean said, sounding less convincing that Sam would like. What the hell was eating at him? He had been acting strange all evening. And now was not the time for him to be getting distracted with whatever thoughts were rolling around in his head. 

“What would it entail? This “deal” you’re offering? I assume my part of the deal will be an eternity in hell, right? What do I get in exchange?” Parker’s voice was still astoundingly steady. Crowley looked taken aback, a rare emotion for him. “What?” Parker said, “I was listening to your conversation about my great granddad earlier. Based on the way you’ve been talking, I assumed you were probably one of those demons you mentioned; and if you’re offering me a deal just like my granddad, it’s probably the same terms, right? Do I get a decade before then, too?” 

“Stop talking as if you’re actually considering it!” Sam said, rounding him on the mattress so that they were face to face. “Losing your soul to hell is no joke! Nothing, NOTHING could be worth that.” He leaned forward, holding Parker’s gaze in his own, trying to relay to him just how bad of an idea this would be.

“I’d beg to differ,” Crowley purred. “Let me tell you just what I can do for you. I happen to know the location of, and would be willing to retrieve, the text used to create the Star of Inanna. In that text, there is a counter-spell, one that can be used not only to destroy the artifact, but save Sam and anyone who has been converted into energy for your benefit within the last year. And you get to walk away alive. So that’s….approximately 20 lives for the low, low price of one single soul.” He grinned. “That sort of deal’s hard to pass up.” 

“The hell, Crowley?” Dean growled. 

The demon simply shrugged. “You have a choice. Kill the boy and pray that your dear little Samantha doesn’t disappear into a cloud of red dust, or let him live, save half the town, and let one soul go down the drain. He still looks willing enough; why not let him make his own choice? He knows the consequences.” 

“No,” Sam said, turning back around to face the demon, anger hardening his normally gentle hazel eyes. “No, I won’t let you. I won’t let you do this.” He looked back at Parker, pleading. “Please don’t do this.” 

“Sam.” Parker said, voice softer and gentler than any of them had heard it up to this point. “I am not worth twenty people’s lives. I’m not worth your life. Let me do something to make that right. I’m going to die either way. Let me at least die knowing I did the right thing.” He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “I’ve known for years that my family was somehow the cause of the disappearances. If anyone needs to pay for that, it’s me.” He looked Crowley squarely in the face. “I agree to your terms.” 

“Fantastic!” Crowley said, clapping his hands together in excitement. Immediately he straightened his coat and headed for the door. “I’ll be back with that text in an hour. The artifact is currently buried under the bridge on the south edge of town. Meet me there, and we’ll save this miserable town.” He nodded in farewell and disappeared with a snap of his fingers.


	57. Chapter 57

“Sam, stop blaming yourself.” Parker said with a sigh, squeezing Sam’s fingers as the motel room door clicked shut behind them. Despite the fact that he had just signed away his soul, he seemed to be rather cheery. 

“I should have stopped you.” Sam said, not willing to look at him. He sniffed heavily, and Parker smiled. 

“I’m thrilled that I mean so much to you. Honestly, after that whole scene in the bar, I wasn’t sure whether you’d feel anything at all.” Sam opened his mouth to argue, stung by his matter-of-factness. Parker chuckled. “No, Sam, I know you’re a good guy. I know you’d do anything to save a maybe not-so-innocent man like myself. That’s what brought you here in the first place, right?” He chuckled. “I knew you weren’t with the FBI. A beautiful man with a heart of gold like you would never catch a break in a place like that.” He laughed again. His tone, which was light and mirthful bit harshly at Sam’s ears. 

Sam finally turned to look at him, a pitiful attempt at a humorous smile trembling under the hurt and self-hatred that burned in his eyes. “You’re the one with the heart of gold, Parker. What you’re doing? I’ve only met a few people so selfless. And I’m sure as hell not one of them.” 

Parker shrugged. “Nah. I just made the pragmatic choice. When a business deal is that good, it’s okay if one party gets burned. That’s what my dad always used to say, anyway.” He chuckled at his joke until he saw Sam’s last threads of a smile slip away. Then Parker’s expression turned sharp, and he yanked their hands so that Sam stumbled and came face to face with him. “Stop blaming yourself for this. I’m serious. I don’t want you wallowing in all that self-loathing in our last hour before all this ancient shit hits the fan.” His stare was so sharp that Sam felt himself nodding before he had even comprehended what Parker had said. It reminded him of Dean’s stare, the one that made his chest tighten every time because it told him that in that moment, the only one Dean was seeing in the world was him. 

Parker sighed again at Sam’s unchanging expression. If only he could reach up and soothe that worried wrinkle out of his brows. But he knew he wasn’t the one who could heal this kind of pain. “Sam, there’s another reason I agreed to that deal. This was my choice. Mine. I chose to save you, and all these people. You and your partner didn’t allow this to happen either, so stop thinking that. I just didn’t allow you to stop me.” He smiled again, and Sam attempted to meet it. He was far from forgiving himself for this recent turn in events, but he wasn’t going to ruin the condemned man’s night all over again. At Sam’s smile Parker’s widened even further. “You are absolutely stunning when you smile.” 

Sam laughed. “I could say the same as you.” He watched the street for a moment, trying to enjoy the companionable silence. A question scratching at the back of his head made him break it. “Parker, that whole…um…sobbing fest at the wreck, and after in the woods, um…” He ducked his head, embarrassed to be dredging up the current hero’s least flattering moments just before the climax, “…they just seemed really…out of character, compared to everything else I’ve seen tonight.” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the actual question. 

Parker just laughed, eyes twinkling merrily in the dim light of the street lamps across the lot. “You noticed that, did you? Well darn. And here I thought I had performed convincingly enough for you not to.” He sighed. “Yeah, I faked the tears. Sorry, I know I made it pretty difficult to get back here.” 

Sam’s eyebrows quirked, confused at the unexpected response. “And w-why…did you fake it?” 

Parker chuckled again, squeezing Sam’s fingers and placing his other hand lightly on Sam’s hip. “Well, if I hadn’t, would you have let me as close as you did?” He batted his eyelashes innocently, the beginnings of a cunning smirk on his lips. Sam thought back to the crash, and the moments following it. He colored as he recalled Parker scaling him as he gained his feet. His hands had touched a few places he had…dismissed…since Parker had been in such hysterics. His right arm, which Dean had just reset and still ached like a bitch, inched instinctively toward his ass. Parker laughed, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks and further enhancing his already flattering looks. Sam cleared his throat and turned away as Parker gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze. 

After a moment Parker took a breath, staring at the ground as if steadying himself for what he was going to say next. “Sam, between me and your partner…I know who has more of your heart. Don’t you dare deny it,” Parker said as Sam opened his mouth. “And don’t just try and reason it away as being feelings ‘for family’ or any other bullshit. I saw the way you looked at him, the moment you saw him at the bar. Now, I don’t know what sort of complications are saturating the air between you two—and I’m sure you have a lot of them, considering your occupation of choice—but you need to stop burying it. Hiding these kinds of feelings will only sour a relationship in the future. I would know; that’s why Geoffrey and I—” He cut himself off with a bitter laugh. “Well, that’s my own ancient history. No need to burden you over that. All I’m saying is…I think you should tell him. For better or worse.” He smiled as Sam watched him with a conflicted expression. 

“Sam, he clearly cares for you enough to contemplate shooting me in the face. Even if he doesn’t return those feelings, he’s not going to leave you over them. Don’t stress both yourself and him out creating tensions over secrets like this. Just tell him. I promise you, you won’t regret it.” And with that he tugged his hand once more, bringing Sam’s face close to his and brushing his lips softly across the younger Winchester’s. Sam let out a surprised huff and placed a gentle kiss on Parker’s cheek in thanks. 

The motel room swung open without ceremony, and Dean jerked to a stop as he took in the exchange with wide eyes. Sam and Parker froze, Sam still hunched awkwardly toward the shorter man. After a second Dean schooled his expression and slammed his shoulder into Sam’s as he passed, ignoring the light hiss Sam let out at the jostling of his recently re-set shoulder. Parker snorted in spite of himself, hand lifting quickly to cover his mouth and nose as he eyed Sam apologetically. Dean threw their duffels in the car with more strength than was probably necessary and clambered into the driver’s seat without comment. He then proceeded to glower unabashedly through the windshield. Castiel, who had followed close behind, simply looked between the two in confusion before climbing into the front seat beside Dean. 

Sam felt panic press at his chest. Dean had already thought he was fooling around…and now he had all but confirmed it in front of him. Up until that moment, he had been seriously considering Parker’s advice. But if Dean was this angry at such minor contact with a stranger….how exactly would he take Sam’s confession regarding his dreams? He fought to swallow. This was going to be tougher than he thought. 

“Well, moment of truth is almost upon us. We should probably get going,” Parker said with a sympathetic smile. Sam cleared his throat and nodded, heading for the Impala with as much self-control as he could muster.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I apologize for any awkwardness in reading the spell I have included in this chapter; the only reference I could find that had pronunciations of these two texts was a YouTube video, and I didn't feel like taking the time to look up an official pronunciation and transcribing guide. The spell itself really is a copy/paste of Cyrus the Great's speech upon his coronation, and a passage from the Epic of Gilgamesh. The words just happened to be perfect for the spell, so there you go!

No one spoke as they drove down the wandering country road; the normal lull of classic rock in the background was noticeably absent in the tense silence that surrounded them. Sam wanted to fidget in discomfort between the reassuring squeezes Parker kept giving his fingers, the questioning glances Cass kept giving the brothers, and the occasional glares Dean kept throwing in his direction. Sam swore he could feel Endria’s amusement resonating in the back of his mind. _Great,_ he thought with a face reminiscent of sour lemons, _yet another symptom I can add to the list._ He knew better than to hide it after that whole exchange with Crowley, but he still hadn’t found the right moment to talk about it. With everything Parker was sacrificing, it just didn’t seem right to burst his bubble and tell him just how bad Sam’s situation actually was. He wanted to walk away and leave the man thinking he had managed the save the day, top to bottom. 

Dean knew Sam had things he wasn’t sharing; he’d been dealing with them from the moment Sam had fled the bunker. The gleam that sat in Sam’s eyes now, however, told him that there was a lot more to discuss than there had been before. And based on his earlier comments Crowley knew something about it all too. But Sam’s pointed glances that likely meant to assure him that they would speak later did little to satisfy his concerned curiosity. Instead he just scowled at Sam as if he had just keyed the car. Sam let out a shaky breath before he could stop it. Angry Dean was intimidating, and while he knew if push came to shove he could hold his own, he didn’t have the energy to argue right now.

The Impala screeched to a halt as Dean threw it into park about 20 feet from the bridge. He climbed out of the car without a word, making his way to the stony arch with hunched shoulders. Sam watched him go with a sigh. After a moment of awkward silence, Castiel popped his own door open. “I’ll…go wait with Dean,” he said, exiting the vehicle abruptly. Parker chuckled. 

“Sorry for the misunderstanding I seem to have caused,” Parker said, not sounding terribly apologetic. “But I wasn’t going to let this night pass without getting something out of it in return for my noble sacrifice.” 

Sam laughed in spite of his nerves. “That’s fair,” he managed, giving Parker a wry smile. Parker used it as an invitation and planted another soft kiss on Sam’s lips. Sam colored again, clearing his throat awkwardly as he turned away. The man had sold his soul and given his own love interest advice on confessing to someone else, and still seemed to be enjoying himself. “You’re amazing, Parker. You just seem so…okay with all of this.” 

“With shitty good luck like mine, you get used to these kinds of situations. Well, maybe not exactly like this, but you get the point.” He smiled again, but this time the light didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been dealing with this since the day I was born, Sam. It’s not a stretch to say that I’m just…tired of it all.” The next few seconds passed in tense silence. Then he laughed. “Well, enough with the self-pity. Don’t want to wish for something else and cause us more problems.” While his tone was joking, the tight grip he kept on Sam’s fingers suggested he was more serious than he was letting on. Sam felt a momentary flutter in his chest at the thought of Dean disappearing, but took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Parker seemed to know what he was doing. Sam was going to trust him on this. But he was going to stop pressing his luck by asking such deep questions. The two agreed with a look that it was time to follow, and slid awkwardly out of the backseat, careful not to let go of each other in the process. 

Sam was almost thankful for the loud rumbling sound that started as they made their way over to the bridge. He watched as Dean and Cass slid into their respective defensive crouches, the flashes of silver showing that each had palmed their weapons in response to the unexpected surprise. Parker suddenly sucked in a breath and squeezed Sam’s finger’s tightly, coming to an abrupt halt. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as heat began to roll off of him in steady waves. “Parker? Parker, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, leaning forward to get a good look at his face. Then he noticed the red glow illuminating the underside of the bridge. 

“He is reacting to the artifact,” Castiel shouted in their direction. “You should keep your distance until we know what the counter-spell entails.” When Parker sucked in another pained breath, Sam nodded, leading him back toward the Impala until his breathing had evened out.

“I wonder if that’s part of the spell,” Parker said, as if he had been talking about curses and spell-work all his life. “It would make sense, for the artifact to repel whoever it was benefitting. I doubt anything good happens when the two come within close proximity of one another.” 

“Exactly right, sunshine. I told you that you were smart!” Crowley said to their left. Sam turned in time to see a huge rock hurtle from the sky and land barely a foot in front of them. He let out a shaky breath, thankful that his reaction times hadn’t slowed with the latest advancements of either of the curses. At the last second he had managed to jerk the two of them back to a safe distance, so that only bits of dirt and rubble had dusted his shoulders as he shielded Parker from the impact. He heard Dean shout something unintelligible in the distance, to which Crowley responded with a chuckle. 

“The counter spell, as per your request.” Crowley said with a mockingly cordial bow, smile of amusement clear even in the dark light of not quite morning. 

“All that flashy showmanship, seems like you’re seriously compensating for something,” Parker muttered under his breath, drawing a surprised bark of laughter from Sam. He bit his lip and turned away, already picturing the glower on Dean’s face. If it weren’t for all their issues and the unending dangers of hunting, not to mention the forbidden feelings he was harboring for his brother, Sam might have enjoyed becoming good friends with Parker. He was just thankful that somehow Parker hadn’t figured out the two of them were related yet. He probably wouldn’t be so on board with the whole “confession” thing if he knew just how screwed up in the head Sam was. 

Crowley cleared his throat, the sound jolting Sam from his thoughts. “Let’s stop flirting and get to business, shall we?” He asked. He directed his hooded gaze at Dean, who was clearly upset that someone else had managed to make Sam laugh so openly. He did a good job of covering it, glare going strong and gun angled forty-five degrees to the ground in front of him. And in the midst of it all, Castiel still seemed oblivious to the perhaps not-so-familial tensions, directing the heat of his own glare at the bemused demon. 

Sam had already turned his attention to the text itself, some subset of cuneiform mixed with pictographs. “Cass, can you read this?” He asked, waving the angel toward the stone with his free hand. 

“You know, Samantha, I can read it too. How else do you think I knew it existed in the first place?” He sounded offended, though Sam knew better. 

“Yeah, but I trust you about as far as I can throw you. Cass?” Sam prompted again. Crowley scoffed and rolled his eyes as the angel leaned forward, sapphire eyes sharpening as he scanned the stone in front of him. The stone itself was the size of a small column, likely ripped from the inside of some ancient temple. Sam shuddered to think what damage its removal had done to its previous home. 

“I can read it,” He said, still skimming the markings in front of him. Dean made his way over to the group slowly, eyes flicking quickly to each person in turn as if he were waiting for something else to go horribly wrong. Based on their luck so far, Sam couldn’t blame him. 

After what felt like a full two minutes, Castiel stepped away from the stone. “We have to hurry,” He said simply, advancing on Parker and drawing his blade. Sam quickly stepped in the way. 

“Whoa, whoa, woah…why don’t you explain this to the group, before you go around stabbing people, alright?” He said with a nervous laugh. Sam couldn’t help but notice Dean tense again. His teeth clenched. What was so wrong about getting all the details first? Especially when it looked like stabbing Parker might still be on the menu.

“Alright.” Castiel replied curtly. “Parker has to approach the stone before sunrise. He must smear his blood across the symbol and utter the following spell.” He held up his hand as if in demonstration. “Annoch Parker Wellsurash. Shar kisshati shar ru rebu. Shar ru dannu. Shar ki’brati erbe’ti. Shipre sha akka buk’ku.Shu’tsir atta. Igaru shitammianni. Kikkishu shitsuri kale sekkria. Ubut bi’ta. Bini ella’pa. Makura serma napish’ta bulit!” The words rolled off his tongue effortlessly. Sam recognized the sounds as ancient Babylonian but couldn’t understand a word of it. He silently wished he had taken time to study more ancient languages.

“King of the universe…has a nice ring to it.” Crowley patted Parker on the back. “Too bad you’ve elected to forfeit this particular title.” Parker just looked at him in confusion. Crowley scoffed. “Oh, where are my manners! Let me give you a rough translation:” He cleared his throat and declared his next lines as if in a gaudy performance of some Shakespearean tragedy. “I am Parker Wells! King of the universe, the great king, the powerful king, king of the four quarters of the world! Observe the message that I will speak to you! Wall—listen to me! Read, Wall, observe all my words! Destroy your house, build a boat, spurn property, and save life!” He sighed. “If only we weren’t about to destroy the thing; it’d make a great addition to my collection.” 

“But that sounds like…” Sam said, eyebrows quirking, “like the epic of Gilgamesh, the Babylonian flood story. Just how is that the incantation?” 

“His translation is correct,” Castiel said, giving the King of Hell a grudging look. “Both individuals who have invoked these words in public were previous owners of the stone—Cyrus the Great and Gilgamesh, though his part has been paraphrased through the millennia. It is likely these parts of the text made it into historic vernacular due to their frequent use by new ruling powers, those who came into possession of the star.” He stared at the stone. “But the reason this spell hasn’t been undone before is because it requires two more things: the blood of its beneficiary, and the presence of the stone itself. You’ll have to smear your blood on the text here as well. And we only have twenty minutes to complete this spell, or the Babylonian calendar’s New Year will pass and all of those affected—including Sam—will no longer be saved by the spell’s reversal.” 

“No time to waste then.” Parker said, carefully adjusting his grip and hooking elbows with Sam so he could roll up the sleeve on his free arm. 

“Wait,” Sam said, directing his gaze at the angel. “Is there going to be some side-effect to this spell? For Parker, I mean. Since he’s caused so many disappearances, doesn’t reversing that mean it’s going to affect his luck? I mean, to have such bad luck with limitless luck on his side, to have that taken away all of a sudden…that seems kind of dangerous.” 

Crowley opted to answer instead, spurring another glare from the angel. “Well, normally, disabling it on his own would probably get him struck by lightning or cause some other conveniently inconvenient disaster. But luckily for him,” he said, taking a moment to chuckle at his own terrible joke. Sam and Dean both rolled their eyes and Parker snorted in response. “I built an extra clause into our contract. Reversing the spell can’t kill him. He could die any time after, but he’ll be safe for the moment.” Crowley winked at him. “I know, I’m a philanthropist. Now: are we ready?” 

“Sam will be in the most danger here.” Castiel said bluntly. “If lightning strikes, Parker is protected but Sam isn’t. Whatever happens could kill him.” 

Dean’s schooled expression began to crack at those words, the distress that had been hiding under his anger sliding effortlessly to the surface. Sam wanted to reach out and place a soothing hand on his shoulder but resisted the urge. “I’ll be fine,” he said instead. 

“Well, then just use your ‘angel mojo,’ to use Dean’s vernacular, and protect him then!” Crowley said, ignoring Sam’s little interjection. When Castiel didn’t respond, he made a small sound of realization. “Oh, you can’t, can you? That little doodle on his neck is keeping you out!” He laughed, enjoying the array of complex emotions that were rolling around him. This was why he loved his job. 

“How do we protect him then?” Dean asked hoarsely, staring openly at Sam now. “I’m not letting him walk into some death trap…that’s why we decided to do this counter spell in the first place, to save him!” 

“I’ll be fine!” Sam said again, more firmly this time. “If the mark kept me from disappearing last time, it should protect me from this.” Sam grit his teeth as he spoke. He realized that he was going to have to reveal more in front of Parker than he wanted to if he was going to convince Dean that this was going to work. Or at least delay his refusal long enough to get things over with. “Remember, Dean, I even died before, in the motel. The mark brought me back. There’s no reason it won’t this time.” 

“There’s no reason it will, either!” Dean’s voice edged on panic. He stepped forward and gripped Sam’s right elbow tightly, as if the act of letting go was going to let Sam slip away. His glare had almost completely subsided, replaced with a wide eyed stare that pleaded with Sam not to go through with this. Not that Sam had a choice.

“It wants me alive, Dean. I don’t think her spell is going to work otherwise.” 

“It sounds like you’re in more trouble than I thought, Sam.” Parker said, voice suddenly softer, sadder. Concern pooled in his blue eyes, hardening the usually soft edges of his pupils. 

“I’m fine,” Sam said dismissively, not wanting to start an argument with yet another person over his own wellbeing. Parker looked ready to argue but couldn’t get more than a word in before Crowley interrupted. 

“You only have about ten minutes before this whole argument is moot. I’d suggest you get it done. Samantha, the text. You’ll probably have to relay it to your date line by line if you want him to get it right.” He waved a yellowed sheet of parchment in Sam’s direction. Castiel snatched it, scanned it, and nodded his approval before handing it to the younger Winchester. Dean opened his mouth to keep arguing but couldn’t find the words. Sam gave him a sympathetic purse of his lips. What he wouldn’t give to have the time—and the confidence—to comfort Dean properly. 

“Your arm,” Castiel said, reaching toward Parker’s bared skin. He offered it without argument, barely flinching as the angel blade snaked across the forearm, drawing a steady stream of blood. “I’ll heal it once you are finished.” The angel said as if in consolation, stepping away. He patted Sam on the shoulder, concern still visible on his face. Sam gave him a reassuring smile before turning to the older Winchester.

Dean still had Sam’s arm in a vicelike grip, fingers trembling slightly. Sam couldn’t tell if he looked closer to tears or punching someone in the face. He pulled his arm away gently, waiting for Dean’s fingers to loosen as he slipped from his grip. Dean’s hands twitched at the absence, his expression like pieces of shattered glass, making Sam’s heart twinge.

“It’ll be fine, Dean. I’ll be fine.” He offered what he hoped was a convincing smile. Dean didn’t return it, staring at Sam’s face instead, his eyebrows twisted in fear. Sam allowed himself to hold that gaze, smile strengthening, the awkwardness he had been feeling ever since he had fled the bunker finally ebbing to a tolerable level. It didn’t matter that he was having these thoughts about his brother. What mattered right now was soothing that troubled look on his face as quickly as possible. In this case, it was giving him a reassuring smile and surviving the imminent danger of their current case. He hoped that what he had theorized about his mark was true. What that theory probably meant scared the hell out of him, but that was a conversation for a time when twenty people’s lives didn’t hang in the balance. 

“Let’s do this,” Parker said with false confidence. Pulling Sam behind him, he stepped up to the stone and smeared his bloody forearm across the text. Immediately a red glow began to illuminate the letters on the stone from the inside. The cut on Parker’s arm began to emit an identical red light, and Sam noticed with a jolt that the red stone had left dusty smudges on his arm that were identical to the marks that currently coated his own clothing. He noticed his own smudges begin to itch and fought the urge to rub at them. Parker began walking slowly toward the bridge, clearing his throat nervously. Sam kept in step with him, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Dean had begun to inch toward them, that fearful light still bright in his wide green eyes. He was about to turn around and intervene when Castiel grabbed the older Winchester’s arm to hold him back, and Sam let out a breath of relief. Too overwhelmed with worry to fight back, Dean simply stared after them, breath unsteady, leaning forward desperately as if each inch of separation would be irrevocable. Sam swallowed the absurd feeling of joy that rolled through him at the thought. They couldn’t be what he wanted them to be, he knew that. To Dean he was just a brother, family and nothing more. He owed Dean the truth, but he knew that his feelings would never be returned. Dean drew his lines for relationships very strictly. Even if Sam was the person he valued most in the world, he wouldn’t cross that line for anything. 

Parker let out another hiss of discomfort as they neared the bridge. Light flared from between the cracks of the stones at the bridge’s base. The light that had started in Parker’s arm crawled across his skin, illuminating him from the inside much like Sam suspected it had him in that moment when he had almost disappeared. He squeezed Parker’s hand in encouragement, thankful that the young real estate agent remained tangible in his grip. He clutched the parchment tightly in his other hand, equally nervous despite his earlier bravado. Parker sagged forward with a grunt; Sam caught him and half-carried him the rest of the way, worried by the sudden effort it seemed to take Parker to suck in each succeeding breath. When they finally reached the bridge he could see a red star illuminating the central foundation stone. He gave Parker a moment to steel himself before he pulled his arm with the parchment out from under him and back into view. “Smear your blood on the symbol first,” Sam said simply, pointing to the star. 

Parker leaned forward awkwardly, twisting his arm so that he could leave an even swath of blood across the icon. When he drew is arm away the star had formed identically on his arm, pulsing ominously against the seeping wound. “Read me…the words,” Parker managed through labored breaths. Sam took a steadying breath himself and began to recite the words slowly. After the first couple of lines, Parker seemed to get the rhythm of the language, and just like Sam had felt with some of the more powerful spells he had used in the past, Parker began to recite the correct words before Sam had even relayed them. 

“ **…Kikkishu shitsuri kale sekkria. Ubut bi’ta. Bini ella’pa. Makura serma napish’ta…bulit!** ” Parker amended, letting out a long breath as the last words were dragged from his mouth. At first, nothing happened. Then Sam sucked in a breath as every smudge on his body began to burn. He screamed in spite of himself, curling forward as the searing pain overwhelmed him. Parker buckled beside him, the blood on his forearm bubbling…no, boiling from the power of the spell. Sam tried to catch him but immediately ripped his hands away; the violent lashes of heat that were rolling off of him made sustained contact impossible. He ripped his other hand from Parker’s grip to find blisters coating his fingers. 

He dropped the rest of the way to the ground and folded over on himself, shielding his face from the inferno that Parker had become; then a sharp explosion of heat and pressure erupted from the young man writhing on the ground, a hot blast of pain against his exposed back. Immediately Sam felt the burning pressure of the smudges on his own skin shatter like glass, but found little relief with the source of the heat barely a foot from him. That explosion was followed by another, then another, in even pulses like the ringing of a clock. Sam counted them as he took each blow, trying desperately not to pass out. _Three, four…..fifteen, sixteen….eighteen, nineteen, twenty._

As soon as the twentieth pulse had finished, the heat died as quickly as it had come. Sam was vaguely aware the mark on his left side which was pulsing fiercely, and felt the sting of a cool breeze on what had to be raw, exposed skin. He sucked in a breath, trying to focus on his surroundings and stay conscious. Sizzling sounds echoed from all around him, and he could feel tight skin and warm dampness all over his back and his arms. He didn’t want to think about just how bad he looked. Through eyes that were still swimming dangerously, he could see blisters and red patches coating his arm, but the smudges from before were completely gone. Only the mark remained, contrasting starkly against the raw flesh. The grass surrounding them had also wilted in the invisible blaze. Parker twitched feebly to his left, still alive but clearly in a lot of pain. Sam could hear voices shouting in the distance. He took another pained breath, determined to remain conscious this time. He had had enough of fainting on Dean and worrying his brother even further. 

He let out a yelp of pain as Dean’s familiar hands pulled him roughly into a sitting position, jostling the skin on his back. Yup, his skin had definitely burned off in some places. Seeming to realize their mistake, they softened their grip, one resting lightly on his mostly undamaged chest to keep him steady. The other slid soothingly through his disheveled hair, and despite the pain on his scalp he leaned into the sensation. Dean was murmuring softly to him, his face wavering in front of Sam’s eyes, every emotion he usually bottled up pouring from him. Worry, affection, and battered hope battled each other in those beautiful twin green pools. Were those…tear streaks? Why was he crying? Did Sam look that bad? He reached up and rested a trembling hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Told you….I’d be fine.” He managed with a weak smile. 

“You sure as hell don’t look fine.” Dean said hoarsely. He tried to smile back. 

“Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

“That you are,” Dean said, clearly relieved. “Now let’s get you to a hospital, Sammy, and keep you that way.” 

Sam just shook his head, letting out a weak laugh that made Dean’s brows furrow deeper in worry. “It looks that bad, huh?” 

Dean laughed, though his nerves made it sound a little unsteady. “Nah, you shielded your pretty face well enough. You’ll still have looks to spare by the time they’re done with you.” He gripped Sam’s arm as gently as he could, pulling Sam to his feet. Sam hissed at the movement, eyes growing dangerously dark for a second. It took two more painful breaths to steady himself. He could see Castiel and Crowley standing off to the side with Parker, who now looked good as new. Sam huffed in envy. What he wouldn’t give to be saved the weeks of painful ointments and itchy skin. He let Dean haul him to the car without argument, doing his best to help but failing to do little more than stumble along on top of him. He hissed when Dean placed a cool clean cloth on his back to shield the burns before lowering him into the Impala, murmuring, “I know, I know” to Sam as he grimaced. Sam fought to swallow back another wave of darkness. The trip to the hospital was going to be a long one.


	59. Chapter 59

There weren’t words for the pain Sam experienced in that forty-five minute car ride to the hospital. Dean had reluctantly agreed to drive an extra thirty minutes to a hospital a couple of towns over, where hordes of previously missing people wouldn’t be raising the alarm with the local authorities. Sam sat in the back seat, using all his strength to press his forehead into the headrest in front of him, dreading the frequent bumps that lined the road and jostled his wounds. Dean chattered nervously at him for the first few minutes, but one look from Sam silenced him quickly and urged his foot to sink a couple inches farther on the accelerator. The cloth Dean had applied kept slipping down his back, but Sam had refused to let Parker—who had insisted on coming, shoving his way into the Impala before Dean could refuse—even touch it, worried that the light brush of fingers on the skin was all that was needed to push his consciousness over the edge. And even in his pained haze, Sam refused to do that to Dean again. He remembered their last hospital visit all too clearly, the image of Dean lying limply on that bed burned into his eyes like a recurring nightmare. 

His first two hours in the hospital were a blur. He remembered stumbling in, supported by Dean and Parker, and then being ripped from their hands as the nurses and doctors descended. Once he was out of Dean’s sight, he relaxed his grip on his consciousness, allowing himself to slip in and out as he was shuffled through doors and under a series of blindingly bright lights. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to be awake for the treatment anyway. He remembered snippets of indiscernible conversations and flashes of sharp pain, but little else. He thought he remembered the cool sting of a needle in his left arm, and then a wave of darkness descended and pushed him the rest of the way under. His sleep was blessedly quiet, devoid of any of Endria’s cruel dreams or sharp commentary.

He felt the world return in bits and pieces. First he recognized the measured beeps of a distant heart monitor that seemed to come with the whole hospital package deal. Then the sound of footsteps in the hallway trickled in, mixing with the muffled voices of what was probably a nurse’s station down the hall. His mouth tasted dry and fuzzy, and when he tried to pry his eyes open he found them nearly caked shut, too heavy to be natural. When he finally managed to wrangle his eyes open and his vision had cleared, he found himself staring at a blank wall in a generic hospital room, the pastel floral paisley wallpaper distasteful but soothing. He was lying awkwardly on his stomach, unable to see much of anything from his current perch. Having the unknown room to his back set his teeth on edge, and as much as he hated to admit it, part of him felt a little hurt that he hadn’t woken up to one of Dean’s terrible jokes. Then he realized that he could feel a set of rough fingers squeezing his left hand. 

He turned to look at the hand in question and followed it up the attached arm to find Dean sprawled in an uncomfortable hospital chair, chin dipping toward his chest as he dozed. His flannel jacket was wrinkled and creased at the elbows, a clear indication that he still hadn’t changed. Sam wondered how long he had been out. Had Dean even eaten anything since then? Worry tightened the lines around his eyes and mouth even in sleep, and Sam found himself squeezing Dean’s hand in return before he could think better of it. The sensation brought Dean out of his doze; he jerked awake immediately, pulling his hand from Sam’s as he attempted to reorient himself. Sam quietly swallowed his disappointment as the warm fingers slid from his and smiled as he caught Dean’s eye. “Hey, Dean.” He said, startled at the roughness of his own voice. 

Dean just stared at him for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. Then he let out a relieved sigh, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck in exhaustion. “Hey.”

“Hope I didn’t make too much of a mess in the car,” Sam said after a moment, throwing Dean a guilty smile. He knew that there had to be puss and blood all over the leather seats, and grimaced at the thought of having to clean it up. “So, how’d I get roasted? Barbeque gone wrong? Bonfire accident?” While he tried to make light of it, he knew he needed to get their cover story down before people came in asking questions. 

“Bonfire. Got drunk and fell in. Probably don’t remember a thing.” Dean said casually, staring at his hand as he spoke. When he finally raised his eyes, Sam could see that they were bloodshot. “And I don’t care about the car right now, Sam. What matters is that you’re okay.”

“Dude, you need to go sleep.” Sam said gently, trying to turn his head to face Dean better. “I’m fine. I’ll probably be scarred halfway to hell, but that’s nothing we’re not used to already. I might have to lay low on cases for a couple of weeks, though. With all this scar tissue I’m gonna be moving stiffly for a while.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice quiet. He looked away again, and Sam swore he saw Dean sniff. He was careful to act like he hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to protect you from this.”

“For the last time, Dean, it’s not your fault! This job comes with risks, you know that. I survived this one, and that’s what matters.” Dean cleared his throat in response, a clear signal that Sam was to stop talking about this now. Sam could tell that he still blamed himself, but figured arguing loudly about it in a hospital room wasn’t going to do them any favors. 

“How long was I out?” Sam asked instead. 

“Only about half a day. They had to put you out while they were working on you. Though they were shocked you hadn’t passed out from the pain already.” From the look that flashed across Dean’s face as he stared somewhere at Sam’s back, Sam assumed that whatever “work” they had done had probably been extensive. Then Dean grinned, a little too toothily to be genuine. 

“So I’m guessing you’re going to want to avoid bonfires and cookouts for a while, huh? Came a little too close to knowing what a burger feels like.” The joke was thin, a desperate attempt to ask Sam how he was feeling without revealing just how worried he actually was. Sam huffed, giving Dean his best eye-roll in response. He wished Dean didn’t feel the need for all this bravado, but he couldn’t blame him for wanting to lighten the mood. 

“I’ll heal, Dean. I’ve had worse.” Sam realized he would be fighting even harder to convince Dean of this now. Dean’s raised eyebrow suggested he found that last statement exceedingly hard to believe. Sam felt something shift on the mattress next to him, and realized with a start that even though Dean had pulled his hand out of Sam’s it had remained on the bed, just inches from his own. The older Winchester’s fingers drummed nervously on the bedspread. Sam swallowed his nerves and braced for the pain that shot through his back as he shifted, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s surprisingly slender wrist. “Dean, I’m awake; I’m stable. I’m going to be fine.” Dean’s smile dipped a little, his arm tensing at the feel of Sam’s fingers on his bare skin. His eyes flitted nervously around the room, and Sam realized with a start that he hadn’t actually looked him in the eye for more than a second since he had woken up.

“Dean, look at me,” Sam said more forcefully, willing the truth of his words to show in his gaze. Dean froze, still not looking at Sam, as if that small action required substantial thought and effort. Finally, dragged his gaze from Sam’s back, along the mattress, and finally up to Sam’s face. His mask trembled in place, barely able to hold in the onslaught of worries that swirled in his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said quietly, holding Dean’s desperate stare with a steady confidence that pulsed in his warm hazel eyes. Dean’s eyebrows bent, expression threatening to crack as he opened his mouth to speak when a knock sounded on the door.

“May I come in?” Parker asked from the doorway, staring pointedly at Sam’s hand which still sat wrapped around Dean’s wrist. His expression was a little too giddy for Sam’s comfort. But Parker schooled his expression quickly as he stepped inside the room, sticking to the shadows by the door as he waited for an answer. 

“Yeah, sure, c’mon in. He’s all yours,” Dean said, clearing his throat as he yanked his arm out of Sam’s grasp, regret flashing briefly on his face as Sam hissed at the pain of being jostled. “I’ll go get a…coffee, or something—give you some alone time with your new boyfriend,” He muttered to Sam as he gained his feet and escaped for the door in three giant steps. Parker smirked as he watched him pass, enjoying the brush of pink that clung to Dean’s cheeks as he turned the corner and escaped down the hall. 

“He’s not my—” Sam managed before he was gone. 

“Boyfriend.” Sam said quietly to no one in particular. He dropped his head on the pillow with a heavy sigh.

“I interrupted something, didn’t I?” Parker said, his grin practically audible. He made his way to the hospital bed, dropping into Dean’s recently vacated chair without ceremony. Sam just sighed again, making Parker chuckle. Then he asked seriously, “How are you feeling?”

“When you said you wished things would heat up between us, I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” Sam said, turning his head to bring his smirk into view. “Remind me to ask for clarification next time.”

“Well, knowing you have feelings for another man is going to put a serious damper on our relationship anyway, so I don’t think it’s something you’ll have to worry about,” Parker replied, though the humor in didn’t quite reach his voice. After a pause, he spoke, voice serious again. “I thought Dean was going to kill me all over again when he saw what that spell did to you. I’m so sorry I hurt you.” 

“You didn’t. That spell saved me and countless others, Parker. Just consider this…collateral.” Parker made a sound that indicated he had no intention to do so. But when he spoke again his tone was substantially lighter, which meant that Sam’s joke had done the job.

“Seriously though, Sam, I owe you two. You and your partner are absolutely amazing. I can see why you like him.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands off of him! You’re more my type anyway.” His fingers fidgeted with the pressed crease that had miraculously remained in his slacks. “When you were injured like that, all I could do was stare in horror. But Dean jumped into action immediately, and knew exactly what he needed to do. And then when you got to the hospital, he started spouting crazy things like offering his own skin to help patch your wounds. Got seriously pissed when they told him that using a living donor in that manner was an ethical issue. Didn’t calm down until they told him they’d be able to treat you properly without it.” He took a breath, babbling nervously as he stared at Sam, eyes occasionally shifting to his bandaged back before returning to his face. “Did you know they used the skin from a cadaver to patch your worst injuries? Apparently you didn’t have enough undamaged skin of your own to go around. It’s just…skin grafting, necrosis…I didn’t even know what all that stuff was before now. I guess…you two see a lot of injuries in your line of work, huh?” While he sounded much calmer than Dean had, Sam could tell that he was also shaken by recent events. Not that he could blame him. 

“You could say that,” he replied simply, not wanting to stay on this particular topic. “Now you look…” He was about to comment on the special healing service Parker had received post spell work, but his words slowed as he took in a thick bandage on Parker’s left brow, and bruising across the left side of his face. “What the hell happened to you?” He asked instead, silently hoping that Dean hadn’t slugged him; while he thought Dean probably had more self-control than that, he couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely. 

“Oh, this?” Parker said, shrugging. “Fell down the stairs. Twice.” He sighed. “Who knew being unlucky and being clumsy were actually one and the same?” He grinned, as if his own injuries were nothing more than a joke. Concern flared in Sam’s gaze. This was what he had been afraid of. Just how long could Parker survive with luck like this?

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m doing better than you, medium rare!” Parker said with a laugh, and for an absurd second Sam was thrown back to the moments after he had first gotten this stupid curse on his neck, when Dean had been worrying over him while concussed all to hell. Sam smiled in spite of himself. After a moment of silence Parker shifted, leaning closer so that Sam could hear his faint whisper without straining his ears. “So you’re planning on telling him, right? That’s what I walked in on earlier?” Despite his professed feelings for Sam, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that Parker had taken it upon himself to play matchmaker. He wondered if this was Parker’s own personal interpretation of the “I owe you” pledge from earlier. He sighed. 

“Actually, no. I’m going to tell him, but now…now just isn’t a good time.” 

“Bullshit.” The word was harsh, so unlike Parker that Sam found himself blinking in surprise. “Now is the best time to tell him! You’re injured; he’s worried; a few sweet words from you and you are _set_ , Sam! I think you have a good chance here.” 

“Doubtful,” Sam said before he realized that he was yet again getting swept away in Parker’s pace. What had happened to being the level-headed, logical member of the family? He colored as he heard a giggle from the hallway, realizing that from that particular angle it probably looked like they were doing more than whispering furiously to one another. He silently prayed that Dean was still getting coffee somewhere very far away from here. 

Parker just smirked at him. “You just need to practice, Sam. Say the words out loud, get used to them. Then they’ll come when they’re meant to, I promise.” Parker scooted his chair closer to Sam’s in excitement, clapping his hands together as his eyes sparkled shrewdly. “Here, I’ll play Dean. Now tell me you love me!”

From the way Sam’s blush burned on his cheeks, he felt like his face was on fire all over again. He tried to get out of it, hemming and hawing until Parker threatened to kiss him for real if he didn’t “start taking his love life more seriously,” as he put it. He leaned in close, making it clear that he meant it. 

“Fine, fine,” Sam finally said as a couple of squeals echoed just outside the door. Apparently word of their proximity had reached the nurses’ station and they were gaining spectators quickly. Parker shifted back slightly, eyebrows raised in expectation. Sam swallowed awkwardly, his nerves thickening his saliva like corn starch. He opened his mouth a couple of times, embarrassed that it seemed to be so hard to drag four simple words out into the open. It felt like a secret that needed to be protected. But if he kept burying it like this he would never move on. He would keep hurting Dean by hiding himself, and hurting Dean was the last thing he wanted to do. He was going to practice just like Parker wanted. And when Dean came back, they were going to have a serious conversation. They were going to talk about the mark, Endria’s comments, the dreams…he was going to lay it all out, and let Dean decide whether he was going to reject him, leave him, or—and Sam could scarcely allow this thought any hope—accept him. He took a deep breath, locked eyes with Parker who had been waiting patiently for Sam to finish this internal struggle, and spoke. 

“I love you, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, guys, he said it! Not to Dean yet, of course, but...baby steps! Thanks so much for sticking with me so far! I'm trying to update once a week on Saturdays or Sundays, but I've got a few big changes coming up that might affect that. I'll keep you all posted, and hopefully see you next week with the next chapter!


	60. Chapter 60

Dean sneezed violently, barely avoiding the wet slosh of coffee that the sudden jerking motion sent his way. He let out a sigh, giving the brown puddle on the floor a sharp glare before looking around for something to clean up the mess. 

“Allow me,” Crowley said suddenly from behind him, stepping smoothly to the side to avoid the second slosh of coffee as Dean spun on him. He sighed, giving Dean a look of reproach before tugging a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and dropping it in the center of the mess. Instead of wiping up the mess himself, he simply stepped away with a smile and a wave of his arm, indicating that the quickly saturating cloth was to be the extent of his kindness. Dean snorted, stomping on the rag and dragging his boot awkwardly back and forth to sop up the worst of the spill. 

“What are you even doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be plotting in a dark corner or something?”   
“Yes, well, about that. I thought I’d lend a hand with Moose’s maladies before I went on my merry way,” Crowley said, staring at Dean’s handiwork. “You missed a spot.” 

Dean bit back the wave of curse words that immediately came to mind. He had to remind himself that punching someone in a public area in a hospital was a bad idea, even if that person happened to be the biggest demon douchebag to walk its halls. “Even Cass can’t heal him, thanks to that stupid spell. What can you do? And why do you even care?” Dean wasn’t in the mood to deal with Crowley’s circular language. He also wasn’t in the mood to be standing down here in the lobby with a cup of ash-flavored coffee, but with Sam’s present company he wasn’t willing to watch that play out, either. Even after everything Parker had sacrificed to save all those people, the thought of that pretty boy alone with Sam in any context put a sour taste in Dean’s mouth. He sipped his coffee with a frown, trying to bury the flavor before it became overwhelming. 

“Actually, I was talking about ‘that stupid spell,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Crowley said, examining his fingernails as he waited for Dean to process his words and catch up. 

“Wait, what? You…what do you even know about it?” Dean said cautiously, trying not to let hope show too clearly on his face. Crowley was a dangerous resource to tap, and Dean still didn’t know what he wanted in return. Whatever he was after, it wouldn’t be good. And he was after something, that much was certain. 

“I know that if that spell activates fully, Samantha’s well-being will be the least of our worries.” He gave Dean’s bedraggled appearance a quick once-over. “Well, mine, anyway. We all know how you obsess over the poor dear.” He gave Dean a look of pity that made the older Winchester reconsider the many merits of hauling off and flooring his ass with a fist to the jaw. 

“What does that mean?” Dean said with clenched teeth, his temper wearing dangerously thin. Any hope that might have flared a second ago was quickly being overtaken by annoyance. 

Crowley sighed and spoke as if ridiculing a particularly slow child. “Considering my unfortunate relation to that particularly repulsive ginger whore and her distinct set of interests, it isn’t a stretch to think that maybe, just maybe, I’ve picked up at least a little something over the years?” He rested a hand on his stomach, patting it thoughtfully as he spoke. “If that mark is activated, it will allow the Grand Coven’s most dangerous fugitive to gain control of something very powerful, which I would find exceedingly inconvenient.” 

“Are we talking about some kind of artifact now? Because I thought we were talking about Sam’s curse.” Dean said, hiding his growing confusion in his irritation. His confusion quickly shifted to trepidation as Crowley eyed him measuringly, head cocked back and to the left as he took the older Winchester in. What was he looking for? 

He spoke after another moment, a strange flicker in his greedy black eyes raising the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “So you two really haven’t figured it out yet? I guess after your reaction the first time, it would be hard to…” He shook his head. “Nevermind. What matters is that we need to prevent that mark from advancing to the final stage. To do that, we’ll need to figure out just what has caused it to advance to this point. So…ideas? You’re the one who’s been bumbling around with your brother these last few months.” 

Dean just stared at him, still not totally convinced that the demon would be able to help them at all. He wished Cass would have stayed a little longer, but the angel had insisted he had some things to take care of and would be back as soon as he could. Dean knew he was hiding something but had been so distracted with Sam he hadn’t had the chance to drag any real answers out of him. He just hoped he wasn’t getting himself into too much trouble in the meantime. 

“Sam told me that it has something to do with me, though hell if I know what that is. It spreads when I’m there, it spreads when I’m gone…” He gave a frustrated grunt, wishing he had any sort of clue that might lead them closer to an answer. “Do you even know what the spell is supposed to do?”

“Possession, most likely.” Crowley said, measuring Dean’s expression for a reaction. “Based on that look, it seems you two already suspected that? Seems you barbarians have a couple ounces of wit between the two of you after all. Since you destroyed her body, she probably just gave herself a little insurance, and hitched a ride in your dear brother. This particular hitchhiker has a long record of doing just that throughout the centuries; she is one of three who have managed to survive more than 10 witch hunts in their lifetimes, though her methods are a bit unconventional compared to most.” Dean wanted to roll his eyes at Crowley’s smug tone, but if what he was hearing was true (and that was a big IF, he had to remind himself), then their less-than-friendly neighborhood demon knew more about Endria than the Men of Letters records could tell them. He clearly knew something about the spell itself too. Dean fought to keep his expression neutral as he spoke. 

“And what methods are those?” 

Crowley met his gaze in silence for a moment, clearly deciding just how much to share. Dean held very still, wanting to shake the information out of him but sure that if he tried he wouldn’t get a thing. Finally the demon spoke, the humor and flamboyance surprisingly lacking in his tone. “When her current body—or vessel I guess we should say since she hadn’t had her own body in over 400 years—is in danger, she selects a temporary one and marks it so that when she dies her soul is whisked into it before the reapers can drag her off to purgatory. She also adds a magical time-bomb of sorts that, once triggered, deactivates the body’s original soul and awards her control. She’s used this technique many times, and has worn countless faces over the ages. This is how she’s eluded both the Grand Coven and her own demise for so long.”

“‘Deactivates?’” Dean echoed nervously, really not liking the sound of that word. Crowley nodded. “If that happens, what happens to the original soul?” _What’s going to happen to Sam,_ he wanted to shout, but was pretty sure that seeming too desperate would only tighten Crowley’s lips. 

Crowley saw right through him. “Let’s not let it get to that point, hmm? Samantha is definitely less of a threat in his current state; let’s keep it that way.” His expression said what his words did not: _that information was free; the rest is going to cost you._

“Listen, you…” Dean growled, advancing on Crowley and wrapping his fist around his once-pristine tie. He opened his mouth, ready to tell Crowley just what was going to happen to him if he didn’t cooperate further when he heard a pager go off somewhere to his left. Sam’s doctor, the owner of the pager in question stood up, his coffee forgotten as he made his way to the elevators. He met a pair of security officers by the elevators, and Dean overheard them muttering about a “code grey, possibly silver” as they climbed into the elevator. Dean’s stomach plummeted as he watched the number climb slowly from one to four, indicating that whatever situation they were addressing was happening on Sam’s floor. He shared a second’s glance with Crowley before they both made their way wordlessly to the elevators. Once inside, Dean mashed his thumb on the door-close button as Crowley cheerfully chimed, “Looks like things are getting interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks so much for your patience these last few weeks! I just started a new job that has a significant amount of required overtime, so I've been running behind on updates here! Please bear with me as I get into the swing of things and get this story back on track. As you can see, things are starting to happen and I'm really excited to share what's coming next with all of you. I hope you enjoy this (short, I'll admit) chapter, and I'll try to have more out for you soon!


	61. Chapter 61

Sam pressed his head into the pillow as he tried to dredge his thoughts out of the unintelligible sea of embarrassment that had overcome him at that last declaration. Thinking it and accepting it was one thing. Saying it out loud was a whole other animal. The moment the words had slipped past his lips the world had spun, as if coming that close to breaking the eternal but unspoken rule never to cross that line had threatened reality itself. He was vaguely aware that Parker was calling his name. He took a deep breath to center himself before lifting his head reluctantly off of the pillow. 

Parker was smirking at him, an expression caught somewhere between self-satisfaction and sympathy. Sam snorted and muttered, "I'm never doing that again." 

Parker just laughed. "I feel for you, but I really don't think you have a choice." Sam didn't respond, instead tossing a glare his way, wishing he wasn't bed-ridden so that he could take a swing at that smug look on his face. Clearly eager to rub it in, Parker tousled Sam's hair, fingers delicate, careful enough not to touch any of the clean raw skin that started at the base of his neck. “If anything, I’d say you need a little more practice.” Sam wouldn’t dignify him with a response. He winced. The sensation of his fingers on his scalp stung, but when Dean cleared his throat from the doorway it was all but forgotten as his stomach twisted in nerves. When had he gotten back? Had he…heard? 

"If this is what I'm coming back to, I might just take another lap around the hospital instead." While the words were harsh, the smile on his face told Sam that Dean was just being his normal, teasing self. An unidentifiable pressure formed in the back of his throat; something about that response bothered him. Was Dean really not even fazed by whatever he had walked in on? Sam and Parker both knew it had been nothing, but from the doorway it was probably pretty easy to mistake it for something. The reactions from the nurses before had been enough to tell him that. Had he been imagining Dean's discomfort around Parker? Or had that simply been wishful thinking on his part, a result of the unwarranted encouragement from both his spellbound hitchhiker and Parker? He tried to hide the hurt as he met Dean's light gaze. 

"It's not what you think, Dean," He said, proud that it came out sounding somewhat natural, his feelings masked by his forged tones of exasperation. Parker's face which was thankfully out of Dean's sights showed that he clearly didn't buy Sam’s “normal” act for a second. Sam gave him a warning glance, hoping Dean wouldn’t notice their half-second exchange. Dean just shrugged and sidled into the room, taking up a position against the wall on the other side of the hospital bed, out of Sam's view. "You seem to be in a good mood," Sam commented, wincing as he tried to shift awkwardly on his elbows to face his brother. 

"Doctor had some good news," Dean said, sounding pleased. Sam waited for him to continue, not sure whether it was safe yet to meet Dean’s gaze. When he finally managed to bring his eyes to meet Dean’s, he was surprised to find that Dean wasn’t actually looking at him at all. He watched as the older Winchester’s eyes narrowed, sliding past his shoulder and to the door. He heard a nervous giggle from one of the nurses and swallowed when he saw Dean’s lips form the beginning of a flirtatious smirk. 

"Yeah?" Sam said after a few more seconds of silence, when it became very clear that he had been all but forgotten. He tried to tell himself that the sharp pain quickly building in his chest was just a result of the burns. 

Dean blinked, as if he had indeed forgotten for a second that he was the one who had started the conversation in the first place. "Yeah, he said you're healing abnormally quickly. Probably due to that stupid mark of yours, though in this situation you don't see me complaining. According to him, if you keep healing at this rate you'll be out of here in just a couple of weeks." Sam let out a huff of surprise, thankful to be receiving good news for once. The thought of being bed-ridden (and now possibly dealing with Dean chasing tail at the nearby nurses’ station) for six to ten weeks sounded miserable. He met Dean’s gaze, taking in his relaxed posture and easy smile. It would be hard enough dealing with that last thought for two days, let alone two weeks. Not wanting to give his own thoughts away, he matched Dean’s smile with an awkward grimace of his own before turning his face away, unable to keep the disappointment off of it entirely. 

Parker had also noticed Dean’s distracted behavior and gave Sam’s hand a sympathetic pat. There was another giggle, and Sam looked up to see a cute brunette, hand pressed over her mouth in embarrassment as she walked past the door, her steps deliberately shortened so she could stare meaningfully at Dean. Sam took in her small waist and surprisingly large bust and felt his breath hitch, his whole body freezing as he waited for Dean’s reaction. _Please don’t go after her_ , he thought, almost prayed to himself. The room became very quiet as she stepped out of sight. 

Finally, Dean cleared his throat. “Well, now that I’ve shared that, I’m gonna step out and grab a coffee.” Sam shut his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the stinging that had begun in the corners of his eyes. 

“Didn’t you just do that?” Sam asked, wincing at the accusation that sharpened his words. He had no right to be mad about Dean pursuing women. That was normal. Dean had done that all his life. Just because Sam had admitted his own feelings out loud didn’t mean that Dean’s womanizing behaviors would change. The recent lack of interest in that department had probably only been a temporary thing, caused by Dean’s excessive worry over Sam. If he was getting over that, it was a good thing, right? ….right?

“Did I? Well…it was a long night, wasn’t it?” Dean’s tone made it clear that coffee was the last thing on his mind. He made his way past Sam’s bed, patting the mattress by his foot as he passed. “Don’t go running off on me, now. I’ll be back in…” He narrowed his eyes and smirked as the brunette walked by again, her hair now tumbling artfully around her shoulders, “a few hours. Keep an eye on him, will ya?” He said to Parker with a glance that almost bordered on conspiratorial. Parker looked just as taken aback as Sam, nodding dumbly as Dean strode purposefully through the door and after the nurse, his lady-killing grin falling effortlessly into place. 

Parker’s expression was now one of pure sympathy, any humor he had worn before replaced with concern for the younger Winchester, who let out a tight breath as he lay his head back onto the pillow. He knew better than to speak, instead just giving Sam’s hand another reassuring squeeze. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that sleep might do something to mute the feelings swirling in his chest. The next two weeks couldn’t pass quickly enough. 

 

Dean didn’t return to his room for the rest of the night. Parker had gone home at the end of visiting hours the night before, insisting that he had some business to take care of at work. Sam spent the rest of the night trying to find something, anything to distract himself from his unwanted thoughts about Dean’s present company and his own aching solitude. The next morning he swaggered in, freshly changed and downright chipper, which drove the invisible stake even deeper into Sam’s chest. Sam suffered through two hours of his bragging before Dean finally got the hint that maybe Sam didn’t want to hear about his not just one, but two conquests of the night.

The doctor came and went throughout the week, changing dressings and asking endless questions, remarking once again at Sam’s miraculous speed of healing. Sam found it difficult to swallow, wondering if they might have to leave earlier than planned if they couldn’t come up with a way to explain it. Sam passed the time watching the news, and began to grow even more nervous as larger news agencies began to pick up on the story the next town over. He and Dean obviously hadn’t been mentioned yet, but as they had been the ones asking questions in town right before everyone had miraculously reappeared, it was only a matter of time before the two of them came up in the conversation. He knew that drawing that sort of unwanted attention to themselves was dangerous, because while their falsified records had been enough to get them into the hospital, it probably wouldn’t be able to withstand deeper scrutiny. 

The burning pain that had originally covered his body quickly reverted to an intense itch, one that at times bothered him so much he had to grip the sides of the mattress to keep himself from scratching at the freshly forming scars. That more than anything served as proof of his progress, and as Dean disappeared more and more frequently Sam found himself wishing that these two weeks of recovery would hurry up and get behind them. If he could get Dean out of this hospital, he wouldn’t have to keep swallowing his disappointment every time Dean made eyes at, and followed after the next nurse. 

A week and a half later, Parker visited again. He was as sharply dressed as ever, black leather shoes polished back to perfection, and he filled Sam in on developments in his home-town with an easy smile, clearly in his element again. Sam continued to be impressed as Parker told him about the boarding house he had rented, and his plans to build and provide homes for all of the families that had become homeless after their disappearances. When Sam asked him how he had gotten the money to do that, Parker smiled knowingly but said nothing. After a few attempts prodding for answers, Sam finally gave up. If Parker wanted to keep that secret he wasn’t going to fight him. 

Sam fell quickly silent when he asked after Dean, and Parker pursed his lips in knowing sympathy. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything,” Sam finally said, watching the brunette from the first day fly by with her face buried in her notes. “It’s pretty clear that he’s not interested.” 

“You’re never going to get closure that way,” Parker said simply, blue eyes sharp and clear. “Getting rejected is part of the process, too. If you don’t say anything, it’ll eat you up inside. It’ll screw your relationship over without you ever having to speak a word.” He smiled softly and gripped Sam’s hand. “And if you do get rejected and need a little midnight comfort, you know where I’ll be.” The second meaning in his words rang through loud and clear, but Sam didn’t answer, thoughts already turning over Parker’s latest words of advice. 

He knew that Parker was right, knew that the only way he could get over his feelings and move past this was to tell Dean, really tell him, and then give the both of them some space. He’d make Dean call Cass or one of the other hunters they knew for the cases he’d inevitably throw himself into, and Sam could stay behind in the bunker. He wondered how long it would take Dean to forgive him. A part of him wondered if he ever would. He sighed. If Dean hadn’t returned by the time he had fully healed, Sam might have to think about leaving the bunker himself until Dean was ready to speak to him again. 

Sam let out a grunt as pain shot across his chest. This pain was physical though, and he realized with a start that he had finally healed enough to feel the pain of the mark itself again. It was clearly reacting to his thoughts about Dean, and he had to swallow them back before they made it worse. The last thing he needed was a magical attack he couldn’t explain in a hospital full of doctors with growing curiosities. He had already been visited by several doctors besides his own, and he realized that his stay at this particular hospital was quickly coming to a close. The next time Dean showed himself, he’d let him know that it was probably time to go. 

Parker’s worried voice brought him back out of his thoughts. “Are you okay? Do I need to call for the doctor?” 

“No,” Sam said quickly, grabbing his hand as Parker moved to stand up. “No, I’m fine. Really,” He insisted as Parker eyed him dubiously. There was a long tense silence as Parker considered him. 

“Okay,” he finally said, reclaiming his chair with a sigh. 

They passed the next few hours chatting about nothing important, everything from the weather to the latest movies that had come out in theaters. Sam marveled at the thought of seeing a movie in an actual theater; he hadn’t done that since he and Dean had worked that djinn case in Flagstaff a couple of years ago. After a few moments of silence, Sam told Parker about his plans to leave. Usually he would have simply left without a word, but after everything they had been through together, and everything Parker had done, he felt he owed him the information. He was surprised to find that he trusted him, too. He hoped that they could remain friends, and keep in touch once he was back on the road. Especially if Sam was about to get himself rejected. Someone would have to help distract him while he went through the process of healing his heart like he had healed his body. He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry; there was not a bone in his body that believed his feelings would be returned anymore. Dean’s recent behavior had made it very clear that there was no interest there. Not in him. _And just who would be interested in his brother like that?_ Sam asked himself with a bitter laugh. _No one but a freak like me. Looks like I get to disappoint Dean one more time._

“Hey,” Parker said, reading his thoughts. “Quit being so hard on yourself. If he cares for you, and he clearly does _even if its not in the way you want,_ ” He said, eyes flashing in warning as Sam opened his mouth, “He’ll figure out a way to forgive you. And in the meantime, you know exactly where I am. You won’t be alone if you don’t want to be.” Parker gripped his fingers tightly, eyes holding onto Sam’s gaze just as firmly. Sam tried to smile in response, instead managing little more than an upturned grimace. Parker smiled kindly. “Once you get over your feelings for him, make sure to come back and give me a chance.” 

Sam returned his smile. “You’re one of the kindest people I know, Parker. Thank you, for everything you’ve done. I know you sacrificed a lot to save all those people.” 

“I only did it to save you. Everyone else was a bonus.” Parker cleared his throat awkwardly, turning his head as his cheeks flushed. He took a moment to compose himself before regaining his feet. “Well, I have to get back to it. Houses aren’t going to sell themselves.” Sam smiled and waved as he made his way to the door. He felt his spirits fall as Parker’s blazer disappeared around the corner, and quickly distracted himself with what he would say to the doctors the next time they came asking questions. 

Dean didn’t return again until the next day, waltzing smoothly through the door after detaching himself from a petite blonde in a doctor’s lab-coat. Sam barely felt the stinging in his chest, the sensation so constant these days that the shock of it had almost worn off. Apparently the medical staff were not the only ones making their rounds. 

“It’s time to go, Dean,” Sam said, now sitting on the bed that had for nearly two weeks been his home. He was able to sit now, the skin healed enough that he could move his limbs, though gingerly. He had even managed to walk slowly down the hallway with the assistance of one of the nurses. Dean held his tongue, the fraction of a pout on his lips his only complaint. Sam swallowed the bitter, catty response that brushed against his own lips, sure that lashing out at Dean wasn’t going to do him any favors with the conversation he had been dreading for two weeks quickly approaching. Dean took care of the paperwork and lengthy persuasion of the medical staff. From the sounds of giggles in the hallway, Sam had to assume he was calling in several of his nocturnally-earned favors in the process. Sam felt like he could spit acid, but from bitter melancholy rather than anger. It was his own feelings that were in the wrong, after all. This was just him paying the price. 

To his credit, Dean was very attentive as he helped load Sam into the car, careful to lend him an arm to lean on rather than wrapping a hand around his back as was his custom. He didn’t make a single smart remark as Sam lowered himself slowly into the car, and only called Sam “grandpa” once as they made their way onto the highway and began the 4 hour journey back to the bunker. 

Sam spent the first two hours of the drive in silence, trying to decide whether it was better to talk to Dean before or after they arrived at the bunker. Dean hummed quietly along with the radio, completely oblivious to Sam’s internal conflict. Sam did his best not to stare at him, worried that he might call him out on it, and start the inevitable conversation before Sam was ready. After two hours of circling thoughts, though, Sam realized that he probably never would be ready. He then spent the next hour trying for formulate his first sentence, opening and closing his mouth as he rejected each one. 

Finally, as they flew around yet another curve of road, the trees blurring together in a sea of spring leaves, Sam had had enough. Maybe it was Dean’s latest attempt at conversation, bringing up one of the nurses from the hospital for the umpteenth time. Maybe it was Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” playing softly on the radio, or Dean’s smooth voice as it danced cheerfully over the notes. Or maybe it was the realization that in an hour, they’d be back in the bunker, and the words he’d been fighting to say all day would most likely get silenced and shut away behind his bedroom door. Whatever the reason, Sam suddenly felt that if he didn’t speak up now, he never would. So without ceremony or preparation, he spoke. 

“Dean, I need to tell you something.” 

“Jeez, I know I’m no Celine Dion but you don’t have to be that serious when you tell me my singing sucks.” Dean joked, glancing at Sam with a half scowl, half grin. When he realized that Sam’s expression was one of grim resignation, he quickly changed his tune. “Everything okay? What is it, Sam?” 

Sam let out a humorless laugh, barely more than a sniff, as Dean’s concern once again sent a wave of blended affection and guilt rolling through him. “I’m fine. Though I think in a few minutes you probably won’t care whether I am or not.” He added almost as an afterthought, causing Dean to do a double-take as he tried to watch the road and Sam’s face at the same time, concern slowly knitting into trepidation as Sam opened his mouth again. 

“What is it?” Dean repeated, the words sharper than last time. His eyes were still bright green, indicating that despite the foreboding omen he was still willing to remain open-minded and listen, and try to understand. _If only that was all it took_ , Sam thought briefly. 

“I’ve…been needing to tell you this for a while, Dean. But there’s no easy way to say it. It’s why I was avoiding you, why I left to work that case in the first place.” His nerves flared, making the words wobble in place. He tried to take a stabilizing breath, the air trembling as it passed over his lips. 

“Does this have to do with the mark?” Dean asked, tone careful. Anger flashed briefly in his eyes, and Sam realized that Dean was probably thinking that he had hidden another symptom from him. 

“No. Well, not really. The mark may have helped me realize, but.” Sam bit his sentence off in the middle, having trouble keeping air in his lungs long enough to say what he needed to. This was it. This was the moment in which he would tell Dean his feelings. All he had to do was squeeze out those four simple words. 

“I love you, Dean.” 

Dean’s eyebrows knit in confusion, “What’s with the sudden sap, little brother? Was that brush with death that enlightening for you? You don’t have to say it out loud like that, sheesh.” Dean colored slightly. “But if you’re feeling that insecure, I’ll say this, but only once. You’re my little brother; my family. I will always love you. I kinda have to,” He added, trying to cover up his own sappy line with another callous joke. Sam felt the joke slice through him like cold steel.  
“No, Dean,” Sam said, realizing that he was quickly losing courage and that if he didn’t clarify now, he’d never get the proper meaning across. “When I say I love you, I don’t mean it as your brother.” The words came out short and harsh, sharpened by Sam’s last waves of determination.

Sam’s head almost smashed into the dashboard as Dean stomped on the brakes. “Don’t you dare, Sam.” Dean’s words were stone cold. Sam felt his heart rip as he took in Dean’s expression, jaw locked, eyes stiff and clouded, closed off as he threw all of his walls into place at once. It was the clearest rejection Sam could have gotten, and yet his stubborn streak forced him to dig his grave even deeper. 

“I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t help it, I—” Was all he managed before Dean turned away, staring out at the road while the Impala idled impatiently, rattling Sam’s teeth as he felt everything in his stomach drop away, his burns forgotten, the throbbing of the mark on his arm the only sensation left to him as he took in Dean’s profile. He reached for Dean’s shoulder pleadingly, ready to say something else, but dropped his hand when the older Winchester shrugged forcefully away, the message clear that Sam was not to touch him.   
“Get out.” Dean finally said, words cutting through the air like a knife through flesh. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles glowing white even in the dim light of the car. Sam blinked back tears, the sting of his rejection seeping even deeper into his skin. Dean was clearly disgusted, the curl of his lower lip made that very clear, and based on his posture if Sam didn’t get out of the car he was probably going to get punched, injuries or no. He took a shaky breath as he reached for the car door, wincing as the latch popped out of place. He slid gingerly from the seat, burns still tender enough that bending or straightening quickly still sent waves of pain across his back.

Sam felt a harsh thump on the back of his leg as Dean pitched his go-bag out of the car door after him. He barely noticed the flare of pain as it rubbed against his remaining burns. Unable to think much of anything through the emotions that were quickly taking over any rational thought he might have had, he stumbled numbly away from the car before turning around and scooping the misshapen lump of canvas off of the oil-stained asphalt. He flinched at the dry click of metal as Dean leaned across the car and pulled his door shut with striking finality. He then threw the car into gear and roared down the road, leaving a heart-broken Sam to watch the Impala as it disappeared quickly around the bend.

Shock left him staring at that same patch of asphalt for hours, unaware of the curious looks he received from the occasional passerby. Finally, a few hours before dark a sympathetic red truck pulled up; the old man climbed wordlessly out of the car and hustled an unresisting Sam into the passenger seat. An hour later they pulled into town, and he dropped Sam off in front of the local shelter, handing a twenty dollar bill out the window. "Life might have chewed you up and spit you out, son, but that ain't no reason to give it up here. Get a good night's sleep, clear your head, and pick your heading from there. Better than rotting away on the highway." And with a firm sniff, he drove off. Sam gave the shelter a passing glance before turning around and making his way to a coffee shop he thought he had remembered seeing a couple of blocks down the road when he and Dean had roared through town that afternoon. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the neon green "24 HOUR" sign flashing aggressively from the window.

He used the old man's gift to buy a coffee and checked all the nearby tables until he found one that fulfilled his needs—namely, that it had an outlet where he could charge his dead-as-a-brick phone, and that it was tucked so far in the corner he wouldn't have to worry about dealing with anyone else's well-meaning attention. As he sipped his coffee, he slowly began to return to himself, the indescribable pain of Dean's reaction to his confession sharpening as he began to form coherent thoughts. The image of Dean’s posture, of his face as Sam had tried to share his forbidden feelings wouldn’t leave his sight, even though Dean was miles and miles away from him by now. He felt the corners of his eyes sting and swallowed firmly, refusing to cry in front of strangers. He felt his phone buzz under his hand, and looked to see that nearly eight hours had passed since he had last glanced at the clock on the Impala's dash. Dean would be back at the bunker by now. Or would he? Sam knew him well enough to know that after a fight Dean was rarely in the mood to sit around in the quiet and allow himself to think. He was much more likely to throw himself into a case, or the arms of a beautiful girl in a greasy bar of his choice. As much as it hurt to think about it, for Dean's sake Sam hoped it was the latter. Hunting alone while emotionally charged was often a one-way trip, and even if Dean never forgave him Sam still wanted him alive and well. Better for him to be off doing what he had always done, and safer for it.

Either way, Sam knew that returning to the bunker was currently out of the question. If Dean ever did forgive him, it would be weeks, possibly months before he would want to see him again. Sam shut his eyes tightly as he felt a familiar wave of loneliness wash over him. He just never felt right on his own. Alone, he was left with all of the people he had failed. All the things he had screwed up. Even the seemingly unbreakable bond that he and Dean had always shared was screwed up now, and the loss of it was a heavy blow. All he could do now was pray that one day, Dean might miss him enough to let him back into his life. Until then, Sam was on his own.

A flash of bright blue drew his eye back to his phone, where he saw Parker's name flash on the screen. [ _How'd it go?_ ]

Sam didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He took a steadying breath before responding. [ _Got thrown out. In some coffee shop._ ]

[ _Where? I'm on my way._ ]

Parker was as good as his word, and somewhere close to four in the morning he shoved his way through the doors, clothes ruffled and panting slightly. Sam gave him a half-hearted wave, little more than a flick of the wrist as he approached, unable to even manage his usual uncomfortable grimace in greeting. Parker gave him a once-over, checking him for any additional injuries. When Parker was satisfied that no new bruises had appeared on his face, he extended his hand to Sam. "Let's head back to my place for now." Sam didn’t argue, and followed him obediently out the door.

Most of Sam's burns had almost healed, the only remaining patch of tender pink skin left on his back where the worst of the damage had occurred. He lowered himself gingerly into the car, grimacing as he realized that the old man, while kind, had been a little rougher than he had realized. Sam pushed Parker's offer to help him away with a sad twist of the lips, and while Parker looked for a moment as if he would argue he decided to hold his tongue. They spent the car ride in silence, for which Sam was thankful. He still wasn't sure that anything happening to him was real; everything felt paper thin, as if just outside of his field of vision the world simply ceased to exist. When they pulled up in front of Parker's house they barely exchanged a few words before Sam found himself lying in the dark on Parker's sofa, staring at the dim reflection of light cast on the ceiling by the pool outside. Trying to distract himself from the wet pressure that had been resting on the backs of his eyes for the last few hours, Sam looked around the room. He took in the rest of the sectional sofa (that was actually long enough on one end that he could stretch out fully), the marbled countertops, hardwood floors and matching dark wood furniture and had to marvel for a moment at Parker's surprising amount of wealth. He sighed, feeling suddenly nervous sprawled out on the probably very expensive piece of furniture beneath him. Then he eyed the decanter on the coffee table and wondered briefly if Parker had placed it there intentionally. That, or Parker had deigned to deal with life's problems the same way Dean had.

Dean's name was all it took for Sam to reach for the bottle. He didn't bother with a glass, needing something to numb the painful thoughts that were now coming in drowning waves. He ignored the hot burn as it slid down his throat and didn't stop until he had downed half the bottle, closing his eyes thankfully as the amber liquid began to kick in and numb his thoughts enough to sleep. He rolled over and shoved his face in the cushions, unable to care enough to heed the hunter's warning in the back of his mind telling him to keep the room in view. He didn't want to risk seeing something else that might remind him of Dean again.

 

Sam lurched awake to the sound of movement at the foot of his perch, whipping around to find a startled Parker setting down a tray of food on the coffee table in front of him. "Just me, Sam. I'm sorry I startled you." Sam was about to reply when his unfortunate decision the night before (or more accurately, earlier that morning) hit him full force, pounding on his head and rolling his stomach in one swift motion. He managed a pained grunt. Parker huffed in sympathetic humor. "Here's some breakfast to help you cut through that killer hangover. I would have made something better, but something tells me you won't be able to stomach much beyond plain toast." He motioned to the tray. Sam gave him a grateful look before taking one of the slices.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Parker asked after a moment, sitting down on the couch next to him. Sam just shook his head and took a bite, closing his eyes as the world in front of him spun once again.

"What time is it?" Sam asked instead.

Parker checked his watch. "A little after two in the afternoon. You looked like you needed the rest." He motioned as if to pat Sam on the shoulder, but hesitated and lowered his hand as he thought about it. "How are your wounds?"

"They're fine. I'll live. I'm already through the worst of it." He said flatly, his unhelpful heart reminding him that Dean had left him while he was still injured; that, more than anything, hurt the worst. Sam felt the absence of his usually constant worrying, and wondered if a part of him hadn't enjoyed the feeling of being cherished like that. Now that it was gone, Sam wasn't sure what to do. Parker was trying his best to fill that spot, but Parker wasn't _Dean_ , and that made all the difference.

He let himself slip through the next few days, occupying himself with whatever he could get his hands on. He ran errands, read books, and in an act of desperation even fished the vacuum out of the closet and cleaned the house. The whole time he tried to dodge thoughts of Dean, of what he was doing right now, if he was safe. He wondered if he should give one of their hunter friends a call and send them his way, since Dean would no doubt need a case or two to blow off some steam. 

He couldn’t help imagining Dean back at the bunker, getting drunk and breaking things the way he did when he was angriest. And it was clear that he was angry. Angry at Sam for failing to simply love him as a brother, for failing to keep it to himself and let Dean pas the days in happy ignorance. Sam had disappointed him once again, but this time, that let-down went deeper and more personal than anything Sam had done before. That realization stung almost as much as the actual rejection did. He knew that his feelings were wrong, knew that the very thought of that would obviously disgust Dean, and yet some hidden piece of him had hoped for some kind of acceptance, however small.

The next few days passed in a blur; Parker took good care of him, reminding him to eat and drink and always sticking close, ready to listen in case Sam ever became ready to talk. Sam let the scenery change around him without so much as a word, still trying to process his new situation and figure out what he should be doing. _Well, first off, you should be getting over your screwed-up feelings for your brother_ , He told himself harshly, rubbing a hand across his chest as if that would make the ache subside. Parker was in the kitchen, washing the dishes after making lunch. Sam found his thoughts coming back together slowly, and realized rather belatedly that despite both his expression of his feelings and the clear rejection, the mark hadn’t done a thing. Once he was no longer overwhelmed by his feelings of disappointment and guilt, he would need to give it a little more thought. He sipped the glass of whiskey Parker had left him, thankful that the man seemed to know exactly what he needed. 

Sam felt his stomach drop when his phone lit up on the table, vibrating rhythmically and migrating closer and closer to the edge of the table. His heart fluttered into a panic when he saw the name that flashed across the screen. Why was Dean calling? This wasn’t like him. It had barely been a week and a half since their separation, and even when feeling generous it usually took longer than this for Dean to even consider reaching out to him. Was he already ready to forgive him? Or was he just going to tell him to stay the hell away, for good this time? Sam didn’t know if he could answer the phone. He looked at Parker with panicked eyes. “It’s Dean.”

Parker dried his hands and came to sit next to Sam. “It’ll be okay. I’m right here. You need to answer it.” He placed a hand on Sam’s knee in an attempt to comfort him. Sam swallowed and scooped the phone off of the table, ramming his thumb on the answer button before his nerves let the call flip to voicemail. 

“Dean?”

“Sam.” It wasn’t Dean on the other line. Sam fought to keep calm.

“Isaac, right? From that Vetala case in Pasadena?” Sam asked shakily, unable to voice the question he really wanted to ask: _Where was Dean, and why was Isaac using his phone to call him?_

“Yeah.” Isaac said, voice husky as if he had been shouting. If they were working a case together, it was completely possible. “Sam, I….It’s Dean.” 

“No.” Was all Sam managed, color draining from his face. “No.” 

“I’m sorry, Sam, I tried to—” Isaac bit off what sounded like a sob. He had always been pretty emotional for a hunter, unable to put on the unshakeable mask most wore during the difficult cases. “He called me in, because he got a lead on a Lamia in Kohler, Wisconsin.” Isaac’s sob was more clearly heard this time, and Sam fought to keep from making the same noise. “I didn’t make it in time.” Sam dropped the phone, unable to hear anything after that. The world around him shattered, his senses flashing by and slicing him like fragments of glass. Dean couldn’t be dead. 

He couldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again! I had to rework this chapter several times to get it just right. I'll try and update with one more by the weekend. Thank you again for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!


	62. Chapter 62

Dean wasn't sure what irritated him most: the flickering light in the left corner of the elevator, Crowley humming cheerfully along with the severely outdated elevator music, or the ungodly slowness of the metal box as it crawled up the elevator shaft. Dean cursed his decision to take the elevator instead of the stairs. At the time, he had thought it more important to keep Crowley in his sights since the demon had insisted on coming along, and knew that his casual pace often dragged behind the rest when left to its own devices. The only time Crowley was quick was when he disappeared, since running away seemed to be a specialty of his. Dean swore under his breath and mashed his thumb over the elevator button for what felt like the hundredth time, his worry for Sam quickening his heartbeat and shortening his breath. After all, Sam was just barely out of the woods with his injuries; doctors had assured him over and over that Sam would be fine, and that compared to the way he looked when they brought him in, he was doing exceedingly well, but that didn't mean that Sam could stand and defend himself if some potentially armed attacker decided to waltz in and do some damage. And even with his level head, he still didn't trust that Parker kid to defend him in the face of real danger. It was just his luck that in the ten minutes he had left Sam's side, this had to happen. 

Dean knew he had to get over this thing Sam had with Parker. Just because it still hurt that Sam hadn't trusted him enough to tell him he even went for guys in the first place didn't mean he could take it out on him and his potential love life. The hope of it being a simple fling had dwindled quickly with recent events. The single-minded way that Parker seemed to worry over Sam almost rivaled Dean's, which brought that sour taste to the back of his tongue. If things worked out with Parker, Sam might not even need his older brother anymore. He could have a normal(ish, considering the whole gay thing) life again. Dean swallowed thickly. The last thing he wanted was to be alone. _No_ , he corrected himself, _the last thing I want is for Sam to leave me. I don't think I could handle that again._

As the elevator doors slid open, Crowley let out a low, impressed whistle. "I'd have to try pretty hard to make a mess like this," he said with surprise. Dean's pulse skyrocketed as his eyes absorbed the carnage that lay scattered around them. Messy red stains coated the walls like thick swathes of paint, and tattered shreds of he didn't want to know what littered the floor amidst pools of the same red liquid. In the middle lay two bodies, which had been reduced to little more than a pile of limbs. Crowley pointed at the nearest one, whose badge identified him as the guard that had come up just before them. "You can tell this was done by someone with a lot of experience; each one of those limbs came off at exactly the same moment. With one snap of the fingers, I'd say. That takes a lot of power, a lot of focus." He sighed. "I think your dear brother was naughty while we were away." 

While the tone was joking, the smile failed to reach his eyes, and Dean felt the world tilt as he processed his words. Crowley must think that something had triggered the spell. That Sam's soul had been deactivated, whatever the hell that meant, and that this carnage was the result of a crazy witch lady running wild in Sam's poor, burned half to hell body. Dean hissed nervously as he turned to look down the hallway where Sam's room lay. If she found a suitable body before they got to Sam, she'd kill him. He had to find him before then. 

Silence pressed in around him as he made is way down the hall at a light jog, gun in front of him. He knew he wouldn't have it in him to shoot Sam, possessed or no, but the cool metal in his hand was a comfort, helping him stay centered as he took in the slaughter. Crowley strolled behind him, happy to let Dean run himself ragged while he took in the sights. Dean ignored him, too focused on getting to Sam's room to care what he did. He frowned as he examined another pile of limbs. Despite the blood that seemed to coat everything, there weren't enough bodies for him to think that the whole floor had been wiped out. It had been a busy unit, bustling with doctors and nurses as they had attended to all of the different patients. Sam's room alone typically had five or six different people in there each day, with many more at the stations and the front desk. So if everyone hadn't been killed…where were the survivors? 

He pushed that question away as he neared Sam's doorway, steeling himself for whatever he might find. He hoped that the still wet blood, while horrible, at least meant that Sam was still alive. He feared even now finding his body crumpled in a heap on the other side of this door, dead and discarded. He wasn't sure he could handle it. Because while that would mean there was a murderous witch that needed killing, Dean didn't know if he'd have it in him to stop her without Sam. His own life didn't mean anything without him; how could he be expected to live it if Sam were gone? He took a shaky breath, tightened his grip on the gun to steady himself, and rounded the corner. He felt a temporary wave of relief when he took in the empty room. Then he noticed the blood smear that stretched from the visitor's chair, to the door, and down a side hallway. His concern for Sam drew him down the hall, following the blood trail to a janitor's closet in the back that he could barely make out in the darkness of the unlit corridor. He came to a stop in front of the door, resting his ear against the surface to see if he could hear any movement within. After a moment of silence he tried the handle and heard a whimper from the other side. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm here to help." He said firmly but calmly, and within a few seconds he heard the lock click and the door opened a crack. A pale, wide-eyed nurse he remembered seeing in Sam's room earlier that day appeared, and motioned him quickly inside. He tossed a "wait there" look at Crowley who hovered at the end of the hallway with a judging look. Clearly he didn't want to waste time with survivors. But now that Dean was here, he couldn't just leave them. "Tell me what happened." He was sure he didn't want to hear it, but he asked anyway. He needed to get any information he could, if that meant it would help him find Sam faster. 

"Dean," A voice croaked from the shadows, and Dean turned his head to find Parker, hand pressed firmly to his stomach, blood-saturated shirt still wet and in tatters as it hung limply off of him. Big gauze bandages covered over a third of his torso, also thick and wet with the red liquid. Based on the color of his face, most of the blood on him was his own. And if he didn't get some more thorough medical care on a floor where half the residents hadn't been slaughtered by a borderline genocidal witch, his prospects weren't looking good. "We need to get you out of here," Dean said, the conflict clear in his voice. He said it to the room, though besides Parker no one else seemed to be injured. He did a quick head count--there were eight of them in all. 

"He protected us…that's how he got injured." The brown haired nurse who had opened the door offered quietly. "I-I've never seen anything like…like THAT," she spat the word out with equal parts fear and disgust, "in my life. He-he just…everyone…" Her voice cracked and a sob escaped, bubbling up out of her throat like a reflex. Dean just stared at Parker, trying to figure out how to get them to safety without hindering his search for Sam any longer. He looked back at Crowley. There was no way he was going to help escort civilians back to safety. But Dean wasn't going to leave Crowley to hunt for a possessed Sam alone. That was a one way ticket for Sam to end up in the grave, possession or no. He growled in frustration. 

"If you're done playing with the kids, Squirrel, we have a rabid Moose to catch." Crowley said with a clear of his throat. Dean glared at him, swallowing his worry and leaning down to help Parker to his feet. 

"I can get you to the elevator, but you're on your own from there." He said to him under his breath, cursing himself for wasting so many seconds thinking about it. He wasn't going to leave a man to die. If--WHEN he got Sam back, he didn't want to have to tell him he left his boyfriend to die just to save him. "C'mon," he said to everyone else in the room, who followed after him quietly. Crowley scoffed, his head falling back in exasperation.

"Why are you wasting my time?" He said angrily. Dean glared at him as they made their way slowly down the hallway. Crowley sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Allow me." He lifted his arm and snapped his fingers at Parker, who let out a grunt and buckled in on himself. Dean opened his mouth to ask Crowley just what the hell he thought he was doing when Parker straightened back up with a surprised gasp. He peeled the bandages back despite protests from the surrounding nurses and revealed a scar-less chest. Dean looked at Crowley with a surprised glare. Crowley shrugged. "Part of his contract." Dean's gaze cut over to Parker, who shrugged. 

Dean decided to swallow his questions for later. "Get them to the elevator, the one in the main lobby. There's a…mess there, but it looks like the monster who did this went the other way." 

"Dean, Sam, he--" 

"Whoever did this, it wasn't Sam. She may have used his body to do it, but it wasn't him." He shoved past him, making his way back down the hall to follow the trail of blood. "Get them out of here. And then I expect you to tell me _exactly_ what happened." He didn't care that his last words sounded more like a threat than a request. Parker was the last person to be with Sam before the mark was triggered. If Parker was the reason for it…well, Dean wasn't sure what he would do. Parker nodded as if he expected no less, and waved to the other survivors to stick close to him as they made their way quickly down the hall. Dean didn't give him another thought, turning his gaze to the hallway in front of them. 

"I hope you're happy now; your soft heart just wasted us precious minutes." Dean glared at him, hugging the left wall as he made his way forward. The trail of havoc turned down a new hallway a few yards ahead; Dean remembered from mapping out possible escape routes that the service stair lay in that direction. While the door itself was locked, he was sure someone who was currently wielding magical dynamite wouldn't have a problem with getting it open. He sped up, suddenly realizing that injured or no, Endria was making her way out of the building, and that if he let her disappear now, he would have no hope of rescuing Sam when she decided to ditch his body for a prettier model. 

"Damn it," He said when he saw that the lock on the door had indeed been blasted loose, barely hanging on by the warped top hinges. The hot, metallic smell of blood came from beyond, indicating that there had been yet another victim. He was at a body count of seven now. Clearly Endria didn't care who it was; if they got in her way, she would slaughter them. He slipped quietly into the stairwell, listening for signs of life as he made his way carefully down the stairs. He winced at the wet squelch under his boot as he made it to the ground floor, sure that whatever he had stepped on, he didn't want to see. He swallowed back another wave of panic as he exited the stairs and was greeted with blinding sunshine as it poured through the loosely swinging access doors that usually stood electronically sealed. A human shaped dent was pressed into one of them, and yet another security guard lay crumpled on the floor in front of it. Dean glanced up and took in the security office door, through which he could see long rows of glowing monitors. He started to head for the door, hoping to try and locate Sam on the monitors before running off blindly, when a loud crash and a cry of pain drew his attention to the lot outside. He hurried instead to the access doors, trying to keep himself out of view as he assessed his surroundings. Crowley hugged the wall behind him, apparently just as interested in staying hidden. He jerked his head in Dean's direction, telling him to lead the way outside. Dean rolled his eyes, realizing he had no other choice. 

The sound he heard next made his blood run cold. Sam chuckled cruelly, the sound so familiar and yet so alien at the same time that he felt his stomach roll nervously. "Well, I told you to move," Endria said in Sam's deep voice. Whoever she was attacking mumbled something indiscernible, to which Endria shouted, "Enough!"

Dean pressed his eyes shut before pushing off from the wall and rounding the corner, gun out and at the ready. "Let him go!" He shouted, fighting every instinct that told him to get his gun the hell away from Sam. Sam's body shifted toward him, and Dean realized with a shock that somehow, all of the burns and scars from their latest encounters had healed. Even the ghost of shadows that had clung to his eyes had faded, leaving him looking better than Dean had seen him probably since he had picked him up from Stanford all those years ago. But instead of the warm, trusting gaze he was used to seeing, two hazel chips of ice swiveled his way, expression dispassionate and uninterested. Sam's face smiled, expression hard and cold and so distant that Dean felt himself fighting to swallow the lump of emotions quickly forming in his throat. He found himself reminded just as harshly how horrible it was to see a stranger wearing his brother's face. 

Endria laughed again, the soft sound jarringly feminine compared to Sam's usual open bray of laughter. "Dean. What a pleasure! I'm afraid we didn't part on the best of terms last time." She lifted Sam's hand and examined it with a thin smile. "I have to thank you. If you two hadn't tried to kill me, I never would have learned about your brother's delicious abilities!" She raised his arm and curled his fingers forward, as if gesturing for Dean to approach. The smile on Sam's face rivaled the one he had given the waitress at the diner before, and Dean felt his stomach plummet even further as he realized his previous concerns had been right on point. He heard a strangled grunt and turned to find Crowley's body floating in the air, toes dragging limply across the pavement as Endria brought him closer. "It seems your friend here knew about dear Sam's powers already! It was smart of him to try and prevent this whole mess, but…" She shrugged Sam's shoulders, letting out a soft breath. 

Dean was vaguely aware of her would-be victim, a doctor from the long, dirty white coat that fluttered as he stood was already running for the far side of the building, likely to alert more guards to the situation. Not that he even remotely understood the situation. But bringing more bodies and guns down on their heads was the last thing any of them needed. His stomach rolled nauseously as Endria scoffed, "Ah-ah!" There was snap followed by a sickening crunch, and the doctor crumpled to the ground, all of his limbs now crooked in disturbing directions. Dean hissed, raising his gun even though he knew full well he wouldn't use it. Endria laughed again, and Dean felt each sound hit him sharply in the chest. The despair he had been keeping at bay from the moment Crowley had suggested the spell had triggered pressed threateningly at him from all sides. He tried to take a step forward and found his feet glued to their spot on the pavement. He looked up in time to see Sam's hand shift from a pointing finger to a flat palm before feeling the ground slip out from under his feet. He slammed into the far wall of the building with a grunt of pain, and heard a similar sound as Crowley hit the wall next to him. Endria laughed as she took in Dean's look of surprise and betrayal. 

"I am still a little upset about losing my last body. I had a good thing going, and you and this oaf had to go and mess it all up." She gestured to herself in Sam's body--which was currently clad in a pair of hospital issue pajama pants and medical gown--as if talking about some cheap piece of jewelry on the telemarketing channel. Despite the layers of thick shapeless cotton, Endria's posture brought parts of Sam to his attention that he had been fighting not to notice for years. Sam's hand rested gracefully on his hip, which was cocked sharply to the left; His bare chest which showed through the open front of the gown was fully sculpted, his throat exposed as Endria cocked his head back and peered down his nose at Dean. After a moment of consideration she raised her fingers again, ready to snap them and likely sever every artery in Dean's body. He closed his eyes, bracing for the pain. "I think it's best if I finish you off here, don't you think?" 

He flinched at the sound, waiting a moment before opening his eyes again. Why wasn't there any pain? Endria hissed in frustration, the sound still so alien on Sam's vocal cords that it caught on Dean's ears like glass on skin. "You cannot be serious." Dean felt her hold on him slacken briefly, and opened his eyes in time to see Crowley vanish into thin air, apparently more concerned about preserving his own life than stopping this monstrosity rampaging in Sam's body. Endria, who had been examining her fingers, whirled on Dean, hot hatred pouring from Sam's eyes, pure poison for Dean's already battered heart. Besides his looks, there was not a trace of Sam in him. It was a monster that stared back at him, and the battle between his instincts to kill monsters and protect Sam was overwhelming, making his usually steel nerve begin to crumble. He felt his brows curling under the weight of it all and fought to keep his expression from breaking as he met Sam's eyes with his own. 

"I will save him." He managed, voice raw but strong. He poured all of his determination, all of his feelings for Sam into those four words, hoping that somehow, through whatever magics that had sealed him away, Sam would hear him. "I will save you." 

"You can try," Endria said with a bark of laughter, giving Dean a nasty wink and snapping Sam's fingers once more. And just like that, Sam was gone.


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, everyone...I'm sorry this chapter is so short! More is on the way, but I wanted to give you something to let you know I have not given up on this!

Dean stared at the spot where Sam had vanished, face breaking as all of the feelings he could no longer hold back rushed forward at once now that he was alone. He barely even noticed the rough gravel cutting into his palms as he knelt there. He had failed Sam, all over again. Failed to keep him safe, failed to find the answers they needed to remove the mark, failed to prevent the mark from triggering….the list went on and on. He felt the tears as they trickled down his cheeks but didn’t care. There was no reason to stay strong if Sam was gone. He gasped for air, finding the task of breathing nearly unbearable. 

He knew he needed to pull himself together, to climb up off of his dirty knees and start formulating a plan to rescue Sam. But he had to admit that in this moment of solitude he wasn’t sure he _could_ save Sam this time. His urge to find and save Sam no matter the consequence had driven him into this impossible situation. What hope did he have of saving Sam at this point, armed with nothing more than a gun filled with witch killing bullets? His only option would have been to gun him down like the monster that was running around inside his skin. Could he really call it “saving” Sam when it meant killing him in the process? And did any of that really matter, when Dean knew he’d never be able to pull that trigger?

Because of that, he had allowed the witch to fly away in Sam’s body, flying away with his last hope of seeing Sam alive ever again. She could be anywhere. And all she needed to do was select a new body, cast her spell, and do away with the one person he cherished most. Finding him before then would be impossible. No matter what he tried, Sam would probably be dead before the week was up. 

“Dean. Dean!” The sound of his name rang distantly in his ears as Parker came into view, jogging through the access doors with a wild light in his eyes. And as he drew closer, Dean felt a spark of fury ignite behind the despairing haze that clouded his thoughts. Parker had been the one with Sam in his final moments before the spell had triggered. For all he knew, this stylish piece of shit was to blame for it all. “Where is he?” Parker asked, panting as he scanned the abandoned loading dock. He had a gun held at the ready, and with a sickening jolt, Dean recognized the thick steel barrel as one of Sam’s favorites. Last he had seen it, it had been safely stashed away in the duffel currently secured in the trunk of the car. 

“Where did you get that?” He didn’t care that it sounded like he had been crying, or that he would kill the man where he stood if he said the wrong thing. Sam’s gun belonged with no one but him, and Dean would die before he let the little shit who’d lost him have something so precious. 

“Sam gave it to me as we were leaving the motel. We were heading into danger; he figured I was probably safer with than without it.” Parker answered in one breath, clearly more interested in the answer to his next question. “Where is he?” He repeated. Dean snarled wordlessly, climbing to his feet in one smooth motion as he knocked Sam’s gun out of Parker’s hands and wrapped his left around Parker’s collar, jerking him forward. He pressed his gun to Parker’s temple with his right. 

“Where is—” Dean sputtered, furious. “It’s your fault he’s in this mess! What happened in that hospital room? What did you do to Sam? Answer me or I’ll kill you.” Parker’s eyes widened as he realized the threat was genuine. Dean already looked like he was seconds away from throttling the life out of him with his bare hands. The barrel of his gun trembled angrily against his forehead. 

“I swear, I didn’t do anything! We were talking, and he seemed fine, and then all of a sudden—” His voice sounded hurt and confused; he clearly didn’t understand what had happened. To him, it had probably seemed like Sam had just suddenly switched personalities, transforming from the quiet, kind soul he had been into some unrecognizable, terrifying monster. And despite nearly dying at the hands of that monster, here he was, ready to do whatever he could to help save him. And just like that, the fight that had flared briefly in Dean’s chest sputtered and went out. Sam had clearly cared for Parker enough to try and keep him safe. This time, Dean didn’t bother to push away the pain that reared in his chest at the thought. “Where is he?” Parker asked again, his voice soft and sad, like he already knew the answer.

“Gone,” Dean choked out, the image of the hatred that had from Sam’s eyes cutting fresh wounds as he spoke. Parker opened and closed his mouth silently, his own devastation clear by the expression on his own face. “Sam’s gone.”

After a moment of silence Parker managed to speak, voice low and calm despite the army of emotions that were currently waging war on his face. “How do we save him?”

Dean didn’t know. 

“You know, I wouldn’t use a gun to interrogate someone in your state; your hands are shaking enough that you might just blow his head off before you get the answers we need.” Crowley mused from behind them. Dean spun, pivoting in one smooth motion as he leveled his gun at the demon. They eyed each other quietly, both perfectly aware that the gun was useless in this situation. Eventually Dean lowered the barrel with a snort. 

“You ditched me.” Dean said accusatorily. His gaze dared Crowley to say something about his current appearance, but the demon seemed uninterested in his dusty clothes or tear-streaked face. 

“Temporarily,” Crowley said with a patient sigh. “Once I knew she wouldn’t be able to kill you, I merely…relocated myself. Wanted to avoid becoming collateral damage in the meantime.” 

“Bullshit.” Dean said, unrelenting. 

“Well, despite her last words, you’re still breathing, aren’t you?” _Doesn’t feel like it_ , he thought, though he knew Crowley was right. “Seems your family’s disgusting codependency has saved the day once again, eh, Squirrel?” 

“…we _are_ still talking about whatever is going on with Sam, right?” Parker asked, looking unsure as he took in the argument in front of him. “Sorry to be late to the party and all, but…what is going on?” He kept his own gun—which he had obviously reclaimed in the last few moments—trained on Crowley, instinct likely telling him the man was not to be trusted. Dean wanted to laugh at the thought of him trying to use a gun on the demon. But the bitter grief in his chest prevented even the slightest smile. 

Crowley’s own smirk suggested he found the prospect endlessly amusing. “You’ll want to put that down, kitten, before you go hurting yourself.” Parker eyed him warily before tucking it through the back of his belt and obscuring it with his blazer. Apparently deciding not to give Parker a proper answer, Crowley returned his attention to Dean instead. It was clear that he was looking for some sort of response. Dean just stared at him, unwilling or unable to connect the dots himself. After a moment of no response Crowley scoffed. “You don’t get it, do you? Despite the seemingly unbreakable possession spell’s recent activation, Sam’s annoyingly steadfast adoration of you must have kept her from being able to kill you, which should have been a piece of cake with that level of power. Knowing that, you should realize that—”

“That even though something else is in control right now, Sam’s still alive in there?” Parker said in Dean’s place, speaking slowly, staring at Dean as if still unsure of himself. Or, if he was anything like Dean, not yet willing to hope that there was, in fact, hope. 

“Ooh, look who’s catching on!” Crowley said in a voice that would almost sound proud if he toned down his usual sarcastic drawl. He took a step toward Dean, who was still struggling to compose himself again after his earlier breakdown. Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but paused and turned his head as shouts sounded from the far side of the building. He huffed quietly. “Now, as much as I want to hash this out with you, I fear our welcome is running thin. I suggest we relocate this enthralling conversation. Shall we?” 

Dean shoved his gun back through his belt and made his way purposefully toward the Impala that sat waiting just around the building in the back of the lot, pushing his moment of weakness back underneath his mask. He didn’t bother to see if Parker or the demon were following. If Crowley was back already, it meant he believed there was something he could do. And whatever it was, apparently he needed Dean to do it. He hated relying on Crowley. But if there was any chance in hell that Sam could be saved, he’d go along with demons or worse to do it. He just hoped Crowley’s plan didn’t end with Sam’s death. “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing for his two unlikely companions to climb in as he clambered into the driver’s seat. He pulled out his phone as he went, dialing Cass’s number like it was his own. 

When the angel answered, Dean felt another wave of vulnerability wash over him and fought to keep himself stable. “Cass, I need you. Now.” The pain in his tone made it clear what had happened. 

“I’ll meet you at the bunker.” The angel replied before the line went dead. Dean sighed as he pulled the keys from his pocket, barely noticing the familiarity with which the demon climbed into the back seat. Parker climbed into the passenger’s seat, and Dean fought the urge to draw his gun and force him into the backseat. No one but Sam belonged in that seat. But he wasn’t sure that an empty seat was any better, and eventually let it go, starting the car and pealing out before he could have second thoughts. He had three hours to try and formulate a plan on his own, any plan that might keep Sam alive.


	64. Chapter 64

“Sam, are you sure about this?” Parker murmured as Sam slid the car into park beneath the harsh neon lights of the “Motel Fresco” sign. Sam ignored him, scanning the parking lot for signs of life instead. Isaac’s red truck sat three spots down, and Sam watched as a shadow passed briefly in front of the window, indicating that Isaac was still up despite the late hour. He began to climb out of the car, waving silently at Parker to stay where he was. Parker gave him one look and reached for the door handle, apparently done with listening to Sam despite the younger Winchester’s repeated warnings that the situation they were walking into was potentially extremely dangerous. Sam was too focused on finding Isaac, finding that lamia and making it pay for what it had taken from him to waste any more time persuading him. 

Sam knocked on the door, face tight with anger and grief and the synthetic composure he had used to stitch it all together. The shadow in front of the light stopped pacing and tensed, which meant that Isaac probably knew who was knocking. Sam had to swallow another hot lump of accusation as Isaac made his way to the door. Isaac wasn’t to blame for Dean’s death, as tempting as it was to place it there. No, Sam knew he could blame no one but himself for this. If he had simply kept his mouth shut, swallowed his feelings and continued to be the obedient little brother, Dean never would have separated from him and this never would have happened. All it had taken was that one moment of vulnerability, and just like that his world had disintegrated. Now all he could do was find the monster that had taken Dean from him and make it suffer. Then he would fight to find some way to bring Dean back. And if that didn’t work…well, Sam would do what he was trained to do. He would hunt, and hunt until maybe someday he’d be lucky enough to be picked off himself, so he could leave all of these feelings of hurt behind him. 

“Sam,” Isaac said, voice hoarse and eyes red. It looked like Sam hadn’t been the only one crying. He was surprised to see another hunter shedding tears for his brother; remembering some of their past hunts together, however, Sam remembered that the man had always been soft. Isaac had gotten into hunting after his own daughter had been bitten by a werewolf. The place where she had slashed him with her claws was still marked with the same pale white scars. According to Isaac, some hunter had swooped in and saved the day. But Sam knew the truth. Knew that Isaac had simply had the luck of the damned, and had managed to shove his daughter back, where she had fallen upon a steak knife that happened to be made of silver, and the other hunters hadn’t shown up until she was already very, very dead and Isaac had been little more than a grief-shattered shell. 

“Where is he?” Sam asked, ignoring the tear that trickled down his own cheek. Isaac watched it fall onto Sam’s shirt collar with wide, guilt-ridden eyes. Apparently even though Sam had managed not to lash out at him on the phone, the man had already chosen to blame himself. _Good,_ a dark piece of Sam thought. But he kept the thought shut safely away in silence. Isaac didn’t manage to speak, instead gesturing to the second bed inside the room. Sam’s eyes followed his fingers, and even as they settled on the bed Sam wished he could look anywhere else. But no matter how deeply he wished it, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the wretched sight. Parker, who had followed behind stepped into the room now with a soft gasp. Isaac paid him no mind, eyes on Sam, waiting for him to move.

Sam made his way softly to the bed and ran his fingers absently through Dean’s hair as a few more tears slipped past his guard. Besides a dusting of bruises and a series of deep gashes that had likely come from the lamia’s claws, Dean’s face seemed normal, as if he were only asleep. But below his shoulders, Sam could see unnatural indents where he had been constricted, and it was clear that his arms, legs, and spine had all been broken under the immense pressure of the lamia’s grip. But the worst part of it all was the chill that clung to Dean’s skin. He could feel that chill piercing him as he traced his fingers tenderly along Dean’s cheekbone, not caring if the gesture seemed strange to the on-lookers in the room. Any hope Sam might have had of seeing Dean alive seemed to die with that horrible sensation. Something inside him snapped. Sam faintly heard a sob escape his lips, and realized that when he turned to face Isaac and Parker he could barely pick them out through the heavy blur of tears. Hot anger boiled at the back of his throat, pressing like the lamia’s tail against his own vocal cords as he fought to speak. “Tell me what you know,” He finally managed, the words harsh and strangled. 

Parker moved and took ahold of Sam’s hand, his fingers soft and slender, so different from the thick calloused fingers he remembered feeling in that hospital mere weeks ago. He didn’t have the strength to shake him off. Isaac glanced at their hands for a fraction of a second before he began to speak, acting as if he hadn’t noticed a thing. Sam didn’t care. He fought to focus on the words, finding the task hard with Dean’s body so close to him. But the thought of killing the monster that had done this was the only thing grounding him, and until that task was done he couldn’t think of anything else. Isaac mentioned some things he remembered from their previous case; the creatures could look human, and typically killed their victims by crushing their hearts and drinking their blood. When they transformed, they had sharp claws and a long serpentine tail, which is what this particular lamia had used on Dean. After a couple of minutes of Isaacs babble about mythology and weaknesses they had already ruled out, Sam cut him off. “Do you know where it’s hiding?” He asked sharply, fingering the grip of his gun under his jacket. After a second of hesitation, Isaac nodded. “Show me.” 

Isaac pointed to a warehouse on the edge of town, and Sam stood and studied the map for a few seconds before nodding and making for the door. “Wait,” Isaac called, stepping hesitantly in Sam’s path. Sam fought the urge to fling him to the side. “You don’t even know how to kill it yet.”

“Rosemary and salt slow it down. I’ll start with that and go from there.” _If nothing else works, I’ll try the angel blade. If it works on vampires, there’s a chance it’ll work on the lamia too._ He shoved his way past Isaac, pausing for only a second at the door. “Don’t let anything else happen to him until I get back.” Isaac nodded, smart enough not to point out that Dean was already dead. If Sam needed him to guard Dean’s corpse, he would. Parker made to follow him and slammed roughly into his back as he hastily turned the corner behind him. 

“Stay here. It’s too dangerous for you.” 

“Sam, you—” Parker tried. 

“I have to do this alone.” Sam amended, unwilling or unable to find a gentler way to say it. He couldn’t even look at Parker, barely even noticed the weight of those blue eyes on his back. Those blue eyes that would never be that warm, gentle green that he was already beginning to forget. He took a deep breath and focused on the rage that burned in his stomach. He would end this monster, even if it killed him.

A part of him desperately hoped it would. 

 

Sam had known from the beginning that this revenge would not satisfy him. Even as he threw the lighter and doused the creature in flames, and for good measure ran the silver triangular blade through its chest, the ache of Dean’s loss echoed so strongly in his head that he barely even saw the creature fall. He took in the limp, lifeless tail that had wrenched the life from Dean’s broken body, the claws that had gashed his skin, and suddenly wished he could bring the creature back to life to kill it all over again. He wanted to pour the salt down its throat, rub it over every inch of its skin and watch it squirm. But it had been too strong to kill slowly, so here he was, only three hours later, finished with the only task that had been holding him together. He sighed, falling roughly to his knees and letting his head sink back against the battered wooden beam behind him, still gasping for breath even though he should have recovered his stamina minutes ago. He closed his eyes, hoping that now that he was finished with his revenge, he could just...end, right here. For a moment the darkness of his eyelids seemed to grant him that peace. 

He felt a surge of energy roll through his muscles and frowned as he tried and failed to open his eyes and examine his surroundings. Had he missed something in the warehouse? He struggled to move, the darkness of the insides of his eyelids suddenly smothering. The darkness pressed so sharply against his eyes that he hissed with pain, and felt a sharp crackling energy surge backwards from his eyes to his chest and back again. And all of a sudden, Dean was there. Or his face was, plastered against the backs of Sam’s eyelids, colors and lines blurred like the images were coming to him through an old projector screen. Sam felt his chest twist as he took in the look of anguish on Dean’s face. Dean was already dead; why did he have to experience his suffering on top of that? Was he going to have to watch Dean die all over again? He watched with a shaking breath as a vein pressed harshly against Dean’s forehead as he fought to push away from the faded brick wall behind him. A blurred shadow squirmed next to him. Was there someone else there as well? Isaac? Another victim? He couldn’t tell, and didn’t care. He couldn’t peel his eyes from Dean’s face. He knew it wasn’t possible, that there was no way this vision of Dean could see him, but the way those blessedly green eyes regarded him was so familiar, so intimately affectionate and concerned that his heart throbbed painfully in response. But after their last encounter, Sam had lost the right to see this face. Lost the right to hear Dean call his name. So why did it feel like Dean’s rough voice was reaching out to him?

He knew what had to come at the end of this vision, remembering the broken shape that lay cold and stiff on that motel room bed, and suddenly he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t watch Dean die. Couldn’t feel the life slip from his eyes. Even if he couldn’t save him in the real world, he wouldn’t allow this vision of Dean to suffer the same fate. Not while he had a say. He fought to move his head, open his eyes, escape this nightmare and save this imaginary version of Dean before his demise. 

Something deep inside of him sparked, sending hot waves of pain and power through him like a tornado, and suddenly Sam could move. He could feel his hand aimed at Dean’s chest, his other hand sparking with a familiar energy that made his stomach roll. He couldn’t use that power. That ability had been lost. The freak he had been when he had last felt this power….the monster he had become…and now to have it aimed at this hallucination of Dean? He’d never let that happen. With a grunt of effort, he drew that power back into himself, swallowing it whole, ignoring the excruciating pressure that built around his ribs, his head, his fingers. He bit back a scream, fighting to keep his eyes on Dean until finally the pressure of that rebounding energy became too great, and his eyes pressed shut. But weren’t they already closed? He didn’t know anymore. Through the haze of pain he felt hot tears slip down his cheeks as the image faded against the darkness of his eyelids. 

After a few heartbeats the pain subsided. He could feel the jagged wood at his back again, and was faintly aware of a pair of hands on his face, smooth and slender. Who…? They pressed on a cut on his face, and he hissed in pain. He opened his eyes and found Parker, worry twisting his eyebrows as he tried to catalogue Sam’s injuries. How long had Sam been sleeping? Relief pooled in Parker’s eyes as they met Sam’s tormented ones. “Thank god you’re okay.” He pulled Sam against him, hands trembling as they gripped his shoulders. Sam blinked, thoughts distorted like there was a ball of cotton padding the edges of his brain. He felt like he had just seen something important. Had just felt something….had he been in pain? He fought to grasp at the thoughts in his recent memory and came up empty. There was a dark gap in between the lamia’s death and Parker’s worried gaze. Had he dreamed something? He felt a tear trickle down his cheek and couldn’t remember why he had been crying. 

Then he remembered Dean. He let out a broken sob and let Parker draw him into an even tighter hug. There was no comfort in Parker’s arms, only a reminder that the embrace he was truly longing for was gone. And despite his claims that he would save him, bring him back, Sam knew that that desperate hope was just that—desperate. But he wouldn’t admit defeat. Not yet. Not until he tried. He wouldn’t let Dean down like that again. He would try, and only when he failed would he allow himself to stop. He felt bad for Parker, who clearly thought that being there was going to be enough to hold Sam together. But Sam had already shattered into a million pieces. 

The next thing he knew, Sam was in the passenger seat of Parker’s car, hurtling away from the motel and the graveyard that was Kohler, Wisconsin. Dean’s body lay tenderly in the backseat, and Parker’s cheek sported a blossoming bruise. Sam realized with dulled shock that he had placed it there. But there was only worry and affection in Parker’s eyes. He said something that Sam couldn’t hear. Sam pretended to nod along and glanced out the window. 

Sam was vaguely aware of the crunching sound of metal striking earth and the wet smell of fresh soil. He realized the sound matched perfectly with the aching throb in his muscles, and watched as the earth covering his brother slowly leveled out. He had wanted to bring Dean back to the bunker; Isaac had wanted to burn the corpse. Sam remembered taking a swing at him, remembered Parker pulling his arm back and taking an elbow to the face. Isaac’s face had been covered in blood. Parker had brought them here, and stood across from Sam now with a shovel in his hands. Sam noticed there was a shovel in his own hands. He watched as his shovel lifted another scoop of dirt into the air and onto the grave. Onto Dean’s grave. Sam sighed as another wave of grief seemed to swallow him whole. This was never going to end, was it?


	65. Chapter 65

Dean found himself fighting to keep his concentration on the road as the miles of asphalt disappeared beneath the Impala’s tires. Every thought kept returning to Sam; where was he right now? Would Dean ever be able to find him? Was Sam awake while possessed, suffering as he watched his body hurt countless innocents, or was Endria putting him through endless mind games like Lucifer had? Would Dean ever get to see the warm affection that he so desperately hungered for again? Or would the cold hatred from their last encounter be the last thing he’d ever see in Sam’s eyes? The questions boiled up, almost as infinite as the memories he had made with Sam in this car from their childhood to now. His thoughts seemed to be taunting him, giving him flashes of happy moments spent with Sam on the road. He could almost feel the overwhelming wave of warmth that always passed through him any time Sam would laugh at his terrible jokes or clap him on the shoulder. Just a small gesture like that from his little brother could make him smile for days. Hell, if he was really honest, most of what made this car so special to him was the time he had spent in it with Sam. Without his presence in the passenger’s seat now, being in the car just felt…stale.

Dean had dealt with this feeling before, back when he had first lost Sam to Lucifer and the cage. The long miles he had driven to Lisa’s house after that fight had been excruciating, and by the time he had climbed out and knocked on her door, he had realized that any desire to be in that car had died with Sam. Lisa had always said that with time, he would get over it, would be happy to drive that car again. But in the year he had spent with her afterward, the Impala had barely made it out from under the tarp in the garage. He had only driven it to keep it from falling into disrepair, and only ever took it out alone. And whenever he did, the grief and anger that had swallowed him that day would billow up again and leave him gasping for air. He swallowed back another wave of that grief now, focusing on the yellow lines that streaked the asphalt like they were an anchor, tying him to the present. While he and his current companions didn’t have a solid plan yet, he had to believe for Sam’s sake that there was a chance of saving him. And if he had any chance of saving Sam, Dean had to keep it together.

Dean glanced at the stranger in Sam’s seat. Parker was staring out the window, watching the buildings as they passed by. But Dean could tell from the reflection in the glass that he wasn’t actually looking at anything. He wore a look of sharp determination that reminded Dean that he needed to hurry up and harden his own resolve. He had to admire the kid’s strength, given that he had just sold his soul to save a handful of strangers and was probably riding a one-way ticket into the hunting life for the rest of his days, a fate Dean wouldn’t wish on anybody. If Sam’s life weren’t currently in danger, and if he didn’t need all the help he could get to bring him back, he would have personally tried to chase him off.

He threw a quick glance at the back seat, scowling into the rear view mirror. Crowley’s smug stare met his unflinchingly, like he knew exactly what Dean was thinking. Dean admitted with a heavy sigh that when it came to Sam he was dangerously easy to read, and so that assumption was not entirely off-base. He returned his gaze to the road, already sure he was going to regret bringing the demon along. But times were about as desperate as they could get for Dean, so he wasn’t about to rule out any option, even if that option came with its own demon douchebag on the side.

By the time they arrived, Dean had managed to shove all of his feelings neatly beneath the mask he always wore, rendering his gaze hard and emotionless. He eyed the seedy bar in front of them, wishing that he had the time to wallow and drink himself into a stupor. He had texted Cass half an hour ago, rerouting him to their current location. Crowley gave Dean a look that told him exactly what the demon thought of their current rendezvous. Dean didn’t care. It would take more than a show of good faith for him to willingly bring the king of hell into the bunker.

Dean led the way, Parker nearly on his heels. Crowley paused and held up a hand as his phone began to ring, the ringtone as obnoxious as ever. Dean debated whether he should wait for the demon or not; he was afraid that if he let him out of his sight, he would just up and disappear on them. Crowley just waved his hand in a shooing motion before covering the receiver and mouthing, “I’ll just be a moment, darling.” Dean grimaced and pushed his way through the front doors.

He and Parker grabbed a table in the back of the bar; normally he’d prefer to ride a stool, but as it was an odd hour and there were very few people in the place, he elected for privacy over comfort. Once the table had been claimed, he made his way to the counter and snagged a double shot of their cheapest whiskey. While he couldn’t afford to get too deep into the glass, there was no way he was going to cope with their current situation sober. Parker followed suit, returning with a beer with some frouffy foreign label. Dean eyed it dubiously and snorted, but chose not to say anything aloud. No point in starting a fight over a pointlessly fancy beer. Not yet, anyway.

“Where’s Crowley?” Castiel asked from over Dean’s shoulder. Dean sucked in a breath. Even without his wings, the angel always managed to sneak up behind him and catch him by surprise. Then he registered the question.

“He wasn’t outside when you came in?” He said, suspicion trickling into his voice. He lurched to his feet and strode purposefully toward the door, Cass close behind him. The parking lot was conspicuously empty, lacking any sign of life at all, cynical demon companions included. Dean swore, slamming his fist into the wall. Why did he leave him alone? For all he knew, Crowley had decided it would be better to simply run off and kill Sam on his own and ditched them for that exact reason. He could tell from Cass’s face that they both suspected the same thing. Dean swore again.

“We’ll save Sam, Dean.” Castiel offered, sounding more sure of himself than he looked, as always.

“How, Cass? Where the hell do we even begin? We have no leads on him, no information, and no time!” He heard his voice raise in concern and despair, felt his mask trembling on his face. He stared desperately at Cass, wishing the angel could just magically provide them with a solution. The angel did the only thing he could do, laying a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean shrugged it off, too overwhelmed to accept even that little bit of comfort. He started pacing, trying desperately to come up with some, any idea of where to go from here. 

Dean froze mid-stride when Parker popped his head from around the doorway. “Um, guys? I think you’ll wanna get in here,” He said, the tone in his voice suggesting that whatever was going on inside was making him largely uncomfortable. Dean and Cass shared a look before following their companion back indoors. Parker led the way back to the table, where Crowley now sat wearing an expression that was a blend between smug self-satisfaction and annoyance. The newest, unexpected member of their team gave Parker a coy wave and a wink, her ginger curls dancing around her shoulders. Her heavily hooded eyes, clad in yet another shade of emerald eyeshadow, swiveled up to Dean’s face. Dean couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Rowena.” Castiel said, the distaste clear in his tone. She ignored him, keeping her attention on Dean instead.

“Ugh, Winchester,” she said with a roll of her eyes, her own distaste for the situation overwhelmingly apparent. Dean eyed her warily, his gaze shifting between her and Crowley, who made a gagging sound as Rowena returned her gaze to Parker and crooned, “Though, I have to admit I’m quite fond of your newest pet! Didn’t think he was your type, Dean.” She spat his name like it was a curse word. 

“Why is she here?” Dean asked Crowley, not gracing Rowena with a response. She huffed, placing a hand on her scantily clad chest as if she were insulted by the slight. Again, she was ignored. 

“We need to track a very powerful witch. How better to do that than to use another powerful witch?” Crowley said matter-of-factly, as if this had been part of their original plan the whole time. For all he knew, it had been. Crowley hadn’t shared a word of his own plans with them the entire car ride there. He hoped now that their “team” was assembled he could start getting some answers, and actually do something to save his brother. 

“And you are...willing to help us?” Castiel asked, the look on his face one of doubt and annoyance. 

“Well, Feathers,” She replied, adopting Crowley’s nickname and relishing the deepening creases of annoyance on Castiel’s face, “It just so happens that I have a rather...personal score to settle with the witch we are currently hunting.” For a moment her sweet, lilting facade fell aside, revealing a look of hardened hatred and determination that could rival Dean’s own. Then her mask was back, and she smiled at Parker, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable with the attention. “And it just so happens that I know exactly where we can find poor, possessed Samuel.” 

“What?” Dean said, voice suddenly tender. How could it be that easy? “How? Where is he?” There were so many more questions he wanted to ask, but for now he left it at that. 

“Even though you somehow managed to remain oblivious all these years, a lot of us are very aware of Sam’s repressed abilities,” Rowena said with a weary sigh. Dean opened his mouth to argue but fell into shocked silence when Castiel spoke. 

“Do you mean to say he is no longer dormant?” He asked, the concern in his voice. Dean spun on him, expression somewhere between furious and incredulous. 

“Wait, what? You knew about these….’abilities’ everyone keeps mentioning? And you never told us?” Dean felt his muscles tighten with stress; before he had been able to write it off as some crazy imagining of Crowley’s. Sam was a normal human being--and everyone who thought otherwise was simply deluded. But now that both Rowena and Castiel had confirmed it in a matter of seconds, had both spoken about it like it was common knowledge, Dean couldn’t simply write it off anymore. 

“Dean,” Cass said, turning on him, gaze sympathetic and so unbelievably grating that Dean had a hard time not smacking him. Instead he glared and turned his gaze away, unwilling to let Cass off like that for keeping such a big secret for so long. 

“What kind of abilities are you talking about?” Parker asked softly, expression timid as his words sliced through the tense silence. 

“He’s a natural,” Rowena crooned, as if speaking of her own son. Was that...pride in her voice? She laid a hand on her chest. “He’s gifted with an astronomical amount of psychic and magical talent. If he were to practice like myself, by the time he was my age he’d be a worthy rival!” Crowley grunted and rolled his eyes, clearly uncomfortable that his own mother seemed to be praising a close enemy of theirs over him. She then slid her gaze to Dean, the knowing look on her face strong enough it made Dean want to squirm. “But because of a few _incidents_ in his past, he somehow managed to seal it away so that he could seem normal; exceedingly unhealthy, all that repression.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Dean said, meeting her gaze with his own hot anger. She held his gaze for three long seconds before she smiled and shrugged.

“I’m not saying anything, Dean Winchester. We’re getting off subject; let me continue.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and placed both of her hands on the table in front of her. “Because I could sense his abilities, I figured it would be safer to place a tracking spell on our dear Samuel should anything happen to awaken his powers. So naturally, when that cheating cow took over his body and tapped into that dangerously large power source, it activated. When I sensed who it was that was wielding his powers, I called Fergus.” There were a number of stories under the surface she was failing to mention, Dean could tell, but for now he focused on the important stuff. 

“So because she’s using his ‘abilities,’” Dean said, gesturing with quotes in the air as he spoke. He still couldn’t bring himself to accept the fact that Sam had been repressing abilities for years without Dean knowing, “you don’t think she’s going to ditch his body, do you?”

Rowena shook her head, curls bouncing heavily despite the slight movement. “Not until she finds a spell to transfer his abilities to herself, which would require quite a bit of research.” She smirked as if telling some inside joke. “No, I think she’s going to try and keep your brother’s body for as long as she can.” Dean absorbed the information, not sure whether he was relieved or horrified by that information. If she was right, that meant she wouldn’t fully dispose of Sam’s body, but could she find a way to purge the soul? Were his powers attached to the body or the soul? He had to admit he didn’t know. 

“His powers are a part of his soul, so keeping an empty shell won’t be enough. She’ll have to try and repress him for as long as possible.” Rowena spoke, eyeing Dean like she had heard his question even though it had remained unspoken. He wondered if he really was that easy to read. 

“And that is where we gain a decided advantage,” Crowley said, taking a sip from a drink that had somehow appeared in front of him since they had started talking. 

“And what advantage is that?” Dean asked, not seeing anything in their current situation that resembled an advantage besides Rowena’s claim that she knew his location. All eyes in the group, Parker’s included, swiveled to him with a knowing look. 

Crowley heaved a patient sigh. “You are.” 

“And just how the hell am I the advantage here?” He said, voice harsher than he intended. 

“Dean, you and Sam are very close,” Castiel said quietly, intense blue eyes filling with concern at the tension that had all but immobilized Dean’s shoulders. 

“And we have first-hand knowledge that that closeness prevents her from killing you.” Crowley added, angling a withering gaze Dean’s direction as if silently saying, _I already told you this, you dolt._ “She can’t kill you, and considering the speed with which she fled after realizing this, I should think that means your presence pokes holes in whatever delusion she has repressed Sam’s consciousness with.”

“So if we get Dean close enough for long enough, we might be able to wake Sam back up?”

Rowena gave him a wide smile, “You catch on quick, sweetie.” She returned her gaze to Dean. “Where did you find this one? I quite like him.” 

“I didn’t, Sam did.” Dean said, trying not to wince at the bitterness that still so clearly flavored those words. 

“Ah,” Rowena said simply, exchanging a knowing glance with Crowley. He shrugged, a matching expression in his own gaze. Dean wanted to punch both of them. Parker was eyeing Dean with a thoughtful expression; Dean swallowed nervously and returned the conversation to their original focus. 

“So you said you know where he is,” Dean said, voice unnaturally loud even to his own ears, “so where is he?” He realized that he had been itching to ask this question from the very beginning. There were so many things they needed to talk about, but Sam needed rescuing, and soon. 

Rowena eyed him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not she should simply provide this information. Dean slammed his hands down on the table and leaned forward with a shout. “Dammit Rowena, where is he?!” Rowena leaned back a look of distaste on her face. She eyed him for another second before speaking. 

“Lincoln, Nebraska.”


	66. Chapter 66

Dean, Parker, and Cass rolled into the motel parking lot seconds before the last threads of sunlight disappeared over the horizon. Crowley and Rowena had supposedly come ahead, refusing to cram themselves into the car like sardines in a can. Dean had to admit he was thankful for that, happy not to be under constant scrutiny by two people who would be just as likely to try and kill him as to try and help him. He had to admit that, even as desperate as he was, he kept having second thoughts about accepting their health. But as they already possessed everything needed to find Sam and seemed to have a personal motivation for helping him with their current predicament, it wasn’t like Dean had a choice. They were there whether he wanted them or not. 

His determination to get to Lincoln, Nebraska as soon as possible had made the car ride a little easier, his feelings of discomfort muted as he filled the thick silence with thoughts about Sam and the magical and psychic abilities everyone in the group seemed to claim he had. Dean still remembered the last time Sam had been psychic--the demon blood, his relationship with the demon Ruby, and the series of mistakes he had made that had eventually led to Lucifer’s escape from the cage, and all the other shitty things that had befallen them since. When the powers didn’t materialize once Sam had been cleansed, he and Sam had just assumed the powers were a result of the demon blood; or, Dean had assumed Sam had felt the same way. 

Dean also remembered the things he had said to Sam moments before he had gone off the deep end, remembered how deeply he had hurt Sam after trying and failing to reach him in his demon-blood addicted state. Even if at the time they had felt necessary, Dean had regretted the words from the moment they had left his mouth. They had been true at the time. He knew that. But he also knew that Sam had changed around him after he had realized his horrific mistake when he was tricked into releasing Lucifer days after. Dean knew that those mistakes paired with his own words had become a heavy burden for Sam, one that he still hadn’t quite let go of. Had Dean’s words done more damage than he thought? Was it possible that Sam had repressed these abilities, either intentionally or subconsciously, because he was afraid that Dean might reject him if he weren’t normal? 

While Dean couldn’t blame Sam for it if that were the case, the questions cut deep. He loved Sam, and knew that Sam had done everything he could to make up for those mistakes. Dean had already long forgiven him, and had hoped Sam had forgiven Dean saying something so cruel, necessary or no. Sam had more than proven just how kind he was, just how determined he was to do the right thing since then. Dean loved him, no matter who he was or what he could do. He couldn’t live without him. And there was nothing that could change that, not anymore. But after everything they had been through, had Dean still failed to convince him of that? The thought made his stomach roll. 

Dean took care of checking-in, handing a wad of cash to the greasy desk clerk and snatching the key off the counter, the whole exchange completed with fewer than 10 words. He grabbed his bag from the car and sidled inside, his companions in tow. The door had barely even closed when Crowley and Rowena appeared, stepping away from each other with unveiled disgust, no happier about teleporting together than they had been at the thought of riding in the car with the rest of them. Crowley nodded to Castiel, who rolled his eyes. Rowena grabbed Parker’s arm with a wink before making her way to the table in choppy little steps, her diminutive size and tight dress making the trip seem twice as long. She placed her bag on the table and began pulling out objects so that she could try and discern exactly where Sam was in town. She pulled out a copper bowl, a pinch of a few ingredients, and a large clear crystal. Dean stood with his back resting against the front windows, eyeing her tools dubiously. 

“Standing so close still won’t allow you to see anything, Dean.” She said, glancing at him with an amused smirk. “Only the one doing the scrying will do the seeing. Witchcraft 101.” He just glared at her, and with a soft shrug she returned her attention to her belongings. She dropped a match into the mixture in the bowl and held the crystal over it, muttering a few words under her breath. Her eyes flashed purple as she stared into it, pupils shifting back and forth as she searched for her target. 

Dean couldn’t keep quiet for long. “Well?” He asked after a minute of silence. 

“This is a big city,” she replied, voice thinner as her consciousness was now split between two places. “You can’t expect me to search the whole bloody thing in so little time.” She sighed. “This is a trifle exhausting, so be a dear and go bother someone else and let me work.” Dean growled in frustration, pushing away from the wall and making his way to one of the beds. 

Parker approached him, a serious look on his face. Surprised, Dean lifted his green eyes to meet Parker’s blue. “Dean...I need to say something.” Immediately Dean’s jaw tightened. Was Parker going to try and use this moment to tell him just what was going on between the two of them? That was the last thing he wanted to hear, and he found himself trying to climb to his feet and walk out, not wanting to listen. But that didn’t seem to be what he wanted to say. “Sam doesn’t blame you, Dean.” 

Dean stopped in his tracks. Parker continued, speaking quicker now that he realized he had his attention. “In fact, Sam was constantly worrying that if something did happen, you would start to blame yourself. He asked me-” Parker’s voice caught for a moment. He closed his eyes and continued. “He told me that if anything happened to him, to tell you that it’s not your fault.” Dean’s eyebrows knit together, weighed down by the combined thought that even while burned half to death Sam had been worrying about Dean, and had trusted Parker enough to tell him something so personal about the two of them. 

“Please stop.” he said, voice raw. Whether his words were true or not, it didn’t matter. Sam was in trouble now, and it was Dean’s responsibility to save him. Always had been. It had also been Dean’s responsibility to keep him safe, one he was constantly failing in.

“He loves you, Dean. More than anyone,” Parker replied simply.. Dean fought the urge to turn and look at his face. Was there a note of pain in his voice? “Just...don’t forget that, okay?” 

“He’s right, Dean.” Castiel said, glancing from Parker to the older Winchester. Eventually Dean just shut his eyes and nodded once, unwilling or unable to reply.

“Oh my,” Rowena exclaimed, inhaling in surprise. She leaned forward, nose barely an inch from the crystal as she examined what was invisible to all but her. Dean was at her side in an instant. 

“What?” 

“Well, I do believe I’ve found them,” She said. Her face was flushed with effort. “But she has a ward around them, probably to shield from my prying. And thanks to the added assistance from Sam’s powers, it’s much stronger than I expected. Don’t worry though,” She said as Dean opened his mouth. “A little more pressure and I’ll be able to discern exactly what she is getting your dear brother into.”

The purple light in her eyes flared much brighter, and beads of sweat began to appear on her forehead. Dean felt a muscle tick in his jaw. They didn’t have time for this! He needed to get to Sam, needed to do something besides stand around. “Almost there…” The 300 year old witch murmured. Dean leaned on the other end of the table, watching her closely. 

Suddenly Rowena gasped, a sound of disbelief. “Oh, you cannae be...och, bloody hell!” She exclaimed in a much heavier accent than normal, slamming the crystal down on the table in front of her and nearly upending the bowl of ingredients in the process. She was blushing heavily, expression a blend of distaste and something else Dean couldn’t quite pin but really didn’t like. 

“What?” He asked, voice tense, desperate for some sort of answer. Rowena didn’t look at him, expression still glued to her face as she stared at the wood grains in the table. 

“I did not want to see that,” she finally said instead, clearing her throat awkwardly, not answering the question. Dean’s stomach rolled with nerves. He wanted to throttle the answers out of her, but he needed to stay calm if she was going to cooperate. Her eyes flicked up to Dean’s, hand shaking, face red as she panted lightly. She cleared her throat, searching for words. For a flash, he saw guilt, followed by pity, before she finally managed to return to her normal judgemental expression. “She’s--ah,” Rowena tried, placing a hand on her chest to steady herself. “She’s done quite a number on Sam’s outward appearance, that’s for sure. It seems she’s using Sam to replenish her own energy.” Dean remembered the hunt that had brought them to her door, and suddenly he understood Rowena’s reaction. His stomach twisted as he realized that if she had returned to her old methods of replenishing her powers, she was probably seducing young women in Sam’s body and then killing them when she had finished with them. If Sam found out that people had been killed with his hands while he was possessed, he’d probably never forgive himself…again. 

“Where was he?” Dean asked, not willing to think about this witch violating Sam like that any longer. 

“They were in a bar,” Rowena said, scrunching her eyebrows together, probably trying to erase the image of what she had seen. Dean wanted to pluck her eyes out, appalled that she had seen Sam’s body in any state of undress. He still didn’t know exactly what she had seen, but knew it had been enough to both disgust her and...Dean couldn’t even bring himself to think that last part. She was still clearly having trouble pulling herself together. Parker, Castiel, and Crowley all wore identical expressions of discomfort. “I believe the sign said...Starlight?.” 

Dean whipped out his phone and searched the name, relieved when only one result pulled up. He sighed with relief as he pulled up the address. He looked at Cass. “Let’s go get him.” 

“Hold on,” Crowley interjected as the older Winchester made for the door. “She’s powerful enough she can sense me from a hundred feet away; taking the angel is like taping a strobe light to your chest. She’ll know you’re coming long before you reach them. Which defeats the purpose of trying to get close, don’t you agree?” 

Dean growled. “Then I’ll go alone. She can’t hurt me, right?”

“No, she can’t _kill_ you. There is a difference.” The demon said with a withering look. 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going anyway.” 

“I’m afraid that if you do, you’ll be exceedingly out of your element.” Rowena said with a sigh. “I think you’ll need to take someone with a little more experience in these environments if you have any chance of slipping by unnoticed.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Parker. 

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean said, not understanding. Parker was brand new to the hunting world. He seriously doubted Parker had more experience than him in any situation except for the ones his ritzy pretty boy lifestyle had exposed him to. Parker looked equally confused. 

Rowena sighed, looking more and more uncomfortable as the words came out. “While Samuel’s body might be male, remember that the soul currently in control is quite decidedly female. And even more decidedly straight.” Realization dawned on Parker’s face. Dean just stared at her dumbly. “She’s not going to go after women, Dean. She’s in a gay bar, and she’s seducing men.”

There were no words to describe Dean’s fury at this witch for using Sam’s body in such a way. It didn’t matter if Sam liked both men and women. Dean couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand exactly why, but the thought of Sam with other men--of his own free will or not--seriously pissed him off. Endria would not lay her hand on another victim. Not if he had a say in it. “Fine,” he finally managed, scowl so strong that even Crowley took a step back for good measure. He turned his gaze to Parker, who swallowed nervously. “Let’s go.” 

Parker nodded and followed him to the door.


	67. Chapter 67

“I still don’t see why this is necessary,” Dean grumbled as he and Parker made for the door, seriously uncomfortable with the prospect of entering a bar with a man clinging to his right arm. He tried to pull his arm from Parker’s grip. He was already embarrassed by the sweater and slacks getup Parker had insisted he wear. The fact that his brother’s sort-of-boyfriend was now holding onto him like a date made it that much worse. He frowned in distaste. Parker sighed patiently, tightening his fingers on Dean’s arm until he finally gave up trying to pry him off. Dean’s scowl deepened with frustration. While he would never say it aloud, he had to admit that the guy had a seriously strong grip for someone so slim and...prissy looking. Aside from breaking his fingers, which would probably be rude, there was nothing that was going to loosen his hold on Dean’s arm. 

“Look, I’m about as thrilled about this as you are, Dean. I mean, seriously, you are _so_ not my type,” He said with a teasing smile that quickly shrank when he saw the older Winchester’s stony expression. He sighed. “I mean it Dean, a good wash and a nice dress are not going to be enough to get you in there unnoticed. You need to look the part, and this is the easiest way to do that. And I promise you, this is preferable to the touching that’d happen if a handsome man like you strolled into a place like this looking available.” A brief look of trauma flashed across Parker’s face. 

Dean eyed him pointedly. “Seems you’re speaking from experience?” He had meant it as a joke, but Parker just nodded and cleared his throat as they neared the doors, signalling the end of that particular conversation. Dean bit off the wave of sympathy that washed briefly over him. There would be plenty of time to address the complicated feelings regarding Sam and Parker that had been swirling around in him for days _after_ they had gotten Sam back safely. Until then those thoughts would do nothing but use up unnecessary brain power that he needed for the task at hand. He glanced at the large purple crystal Rowena had strapped to his wrist earlier that evening. 

“This should help you determine whether or not that snake is still present when you arrive,” She had said cheerily as she fastened the leather straps. Dean eyed it distastefully, never having been one for jewelry in any form. “Simply whisper the word reveal and it will light up if any of her magical energy is nearby. It is attuned specifically to her, so even a simpleton like you should be able to manage.” 

“It’s quite fetching. I think it suits you,” Crowley offered unhelpfully, face showing what he really thought of the bracelet. Dean and Rowena glared at him in sync, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“Even if Sam is there, how do we know the witch won’t just teleport away again?” Parker asked, shrinking back quickly as Rowena cast a look of warm admiration his way. Castiel eyed him in sympathy; he knew just how uncomfortable it was to receive her attentions, and she seemed to have taken a special liking to him. 

“What a brilliant child you are. Makes me realize exactly what I missed out on in my youth.” She said, looking pointedly at Crowley. He eyed her with a mix of malice and amusement. “Teleportation magic is long, complicated, and requires several rare ingredients and quite a bit of preparation.” 

Dean’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “When she disappeared with Sam three days ago at the hospital, she just snapped her fingers and vanished. There’s no way she had time for any of that crap you just mentioned.”

“Ah, I thought so,” She said, nodding to herself as she busied herself with packing up her things. “I knew that fake wouldn’t waste her time trying to do proper magic. Always had a cheat for everything.” Her fingernails clawed the table’s edge, rattling menacingly against the veneer’s warped surface. 

“What the hell are you on about?” Dean said with irritation. He was sick and tired of everyone having the answers to his questions before he had even had the chance to ask them. 

“She’s got fairy blood in her veins,” Rowena said with a scoff, clearly unimpressed with the prospect. “Her mother’s father’s, to be exact. That’s the only reason that cheating piece of toad meat has an ounce of magic in her. She never should have been considered Grand Coven material.” She snorted, the sound snide and bitter. “She is the reason they only allow full-blooded humans into the fold now, though.” She glared at a spot on the wall so hard that Dean wondered if it was going to burst into flames. She wasn’t kidding about a grudge. 

Crowley cleared his throat, not interested in watching her wallow in the past when there were things to be done. She started, shaking off the cloud of memories that had settled temporarily around her, and continued. “But seeing as she’s only a quarter, she’s limited in how much fairy magic she can use at one time. It uses up her life force. And unless she get the chance to devour a lot of poor, young souls--and I mean 50 at a bare minimum, mind you,--she shouldn’t be able to try that again without endangering her own life. And that’s one thing she will never do.” Seeing as they were basing their entire plan off of this assumption of hers, Dean hoped she was right.

“Reveal,” Dean muttered to the crystal as they stood in front of the bar. Parker peered over his shoulder, curious. Purple light flared briefly out of the crystal before it settled back to normal. Dean eyed it nervously. Was it supposed to just flash like that? Maybe they were still too far away from Endria for it to work properly. He sighed and squared his shoulders. Only one way to find out. “Welp, here goes nothing.” Dean wrenched the heavy red door open without ceremony, leading the way into the dark, unfamiliar space.   
The bar was housed in a basement, down a long flight of antique, polished wooden stairs and into a space of repurposed brick and stone. Wood gave way to wrought iron and granite, giving the whole space a high-class dungeon feel Dean really wasn’t sure about. There seemed to be easier ways to get someone their thrills. Dean had expected the place to be crowded considering the number of carrs he had seen outside, but the hallway leading into the main space was surprisingly barren, sporting only a few pairs of men. None of them seemed terribly keen on giving each other their personal space. Lucky for Dean, they seemed to be more occupied with one another to notice another newcomer. Or maybe it was because with Parker in tow, he looked taken? Either way, Dean was thankful. He glanced over at Parker to feed him some sarcastic remark about his pretend attentions and was surprised to find Parker staring openly at one of the couples, his eyebrows dipped forward slightly. 

“What, see someone you know?” By that he meant, _someone you screwed while maybe not too sober that you regret?_ Dean knew he had had his fair share of those while on the road. While they clearly weren’t his finest moments, he knew that everyone, even Sam, had one or two of them. _Speaking of_ , Dean thought, _Where the hell is he? He’s supposed to be here._ Parker shook his head in response to Dean’s question, even though the older Winchester’s thoughts had already returned to the task at hand. The thoughtful look remained on his face.

“Stay focused, then. You can hook up with whoever once Sam’s back to normal.” Dean said stiffly. Parker nodded absently, eyes still on the couple to their left. Dean sighed and yanked his arm forward, ignoring Parker’s hiss of annoyance and leading the way into the main part of the bar.

The main bar opened up into a large room, the edges taken up by booths, tables, a few sofas and chairs, and a long polished wood bar that stretched almost the complete length of the back wall. The center of the room stood empty of furniture, clearly intended to serve as a dance floor. Loud music pounded out of the speakers, digital, grating, and unbearably repetitive compared to the classic rock Dean much preferred. Only a handful of people occupied the floor, most crammed into the various pieces of furniture around the room. Dean squinted uncomfortably and searched the dim room for Sam’s familiar shoulders, sure that his hulking frame would stand out here like it did everywhere. When he was sure he had glanced at every person in turn three times or more, he swore under his breath. “He’s not here.” 

Parker didn’t reply, eyes on yet another couple sitting on a sofa to their right. One had his arm tucked neatly over the other’s shoulder, and they leaned into each other with an intimate atmosphere. Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, unwilling to stare so openly at someone’s private life. “Dude, give them a little privacy.” Then he noticed Parker’s eyebrows had dipped forward even further, forming an expression of growing concern. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Parker was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. Something’s...” he finally managed, shaking his head and returning his gaze to Dean. “Let’s just...let’s find Sam and get out of here.” Dean was surprised at his apparent discomfort, seeing as he was the one with the most experience in this kind of environment. He cast a cursory look around the room, searching for whatever seemed to be setting Parker off but came up empty-handed. Still, considering their current setting, he wasn’t about to argue with Parker’s request.

“Reveal,” he whispered again, and this time he was rewarded by a steady glow. After about 10 seconds, it faded again. “Getting warmer,” he said with a shrug, surveying the room for any possible exits or additional rooms. 

“Maybe he’s in there.” Parker said. He pointed to a set of double doors against the far wall, which was roped off with a velvet coil and a slick black VIP sign. 

Dean nodded. “If he’s not out here, you’re probably right. When we hunted Endria the first time, she would seduce her victims, then take them to a secluded area and suck the life out of them in private. It’d be even more convenient if that secluded spot was nearby and sported a bouncer or two for good measure.” He eyed the burly man in front of the door, a total douche complete with man-bun and indoor sunglasses. The man had muscle, but Dean was pretty sure he could take him if he got in the first hit. He pushed Parker’s hand off his arm and made his way purposely forward. 

The guard bristled at his approach, but just as Dean drew back his fist a cool voice from behind purred, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Dean whirled on the voice and found that one of the couples that had been making out heavily just moments before had both clambered to their feet, one holding Parker by the arms, the other wielding his steak knife with a lethal grace that suggested decades of trained fighting. Which was interesting, seeing as the man in front of him couldn’t be older than 25. Dean opened his mouth for a witty retort but quickly closed it as the second man drug the blade slowly down the left side of parker’s neck and onto his collarbone. Parker grimaced but remained silent. Once again, Dean had to give the guy props. He was one tough son of a bitch.

“Dean, look at their eyes. They’re enchanted or something.” Parker said calmly, eyeing the armed man with caution, not sure whether his words would bring that knife back within range of his throat. Dean followed his advice, noticing now a pale gray sheen seemed to coat the pupils of both of the men in front of him. As twenty other couples in the room gained their feet, Dean swallowed. The whole bar was clearly a trap, and he had stomped right into it. He grunted in annoyance as three strong sets of arms grabbed him from behind. Another man slipped his hand under the back of Dean’s shirt, trailing his fingers intrusively across his lower back before removing his gun. Another hand plunged into his pocket and removed his switch blade. He watched as Parker was searched and stripped of weapons in an equally humiliating manner. 

“So I assume I’m speaking with the wicked bitch of the east,” Dean said, remembering Rowena’s mention of her involvement with Europe’s infamous Grand Coven. 

“What a charming description,” Another voice said to his right, as a slender blonde strolled up to him and ran his fingers across his face. As he reached Dean’s chin he dug in his nails until he could feel warm drops of blood welling beneath the sharp edges. “Seeing as it’s coming from the man relying on a witch of his own just to find me,” He said as another set of hands, darker and much larger, ripped the crystal off his wrist. 

“Not that it did you any good, in the end.” A painfully familiar voice finished as the bouncer pulled the double doors to the VIP area open. Dean felt his jaw drop as he took in the figure that emerged. Endria had left Sam’s face untouched, but that was where the similarities ended. Used to seeing Sam clad in baggy denim and rumpled flannel, he had to swallow thickly as he took in the neatly tailored slacks and tight button down red silk shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. The top three buttons rested open, revealing Sam’s sculpted throat and clear-cut collarbone. The material of the pants accentuated Sam’s legs in all the right places, pulling taut around his ass with each measured step. His long hair, which usually tumbled down to nearly his chin had been tied back in an elegant ponytail, two strands framing either side of his face, emphasizing the angle of his cheekbones and jawline. If Sam had been his awkwardly loping self, Dean would have mocked him for coming anywhere near this getup. But with Endria’s measured grace under his skin, and her cool, seductive gaze in his eyes, Dean found himself fighting to cool the flushed hunger that rolled across his skin as those hazel eyes fell on him. He forced those dangerous feelings under his mask, keeping the rest of his thoughts hidden behind an expression of stony anger. The man who had removed the bracelet handed it now to Endria, who frowned thoughtfully at it as it glowed in the palm of Sam’s hand. It flared briefly, and Endria hissed as she tossed it to the ground, crushing it to powder beneath a polished leather shoe.  
She flung a look of pure hatred in Dean’s direction, the look sending a pang of pain through Dean’s chest.

“Go ahead and kill me then.” Dean spat, trying and failing to pull his arm from his captor’s grasp. Endria chuckled, the cool emotion a sharp contrast to the constant warmth Dean had become so used to hearing in Sam’s voice.

“Now, where would the fun in that be? No, I’m afraid to inform you that a quick death is not in the cards for you tonight. I’ll need to make sure you suffer properly, first. But first, a little snack.” She took Sam’s hand and wrapped it gracefully around the neck of yet another grey eyed creep, this one slightly stockier, but with ample muscle to make up for his shorter size. His face was a contradiction, a mix of sharp angles and soft features that Dean couldn’t help but interpret as symbolic. _This woman is a serious sadist_ , he thought as Sam’s other hand found the other side of the man’s face, drawing him closer until their lips met, Sam’s parting slightly as they connected. Dean wanted to close his eyes, aware that this particular scene was to mess with him, to make him doubt himself long enough for Endria to escape. But he couldn’t seem to look away, trying hard to ignore the heat that was slowly growing in the pit of his stomach. He focused instead on the steady anger that pulsed in his arm muscles, waiting for the hands on him to loosen their grip just a fraction so that he could break away. Controlling this many minds at once had to take a toll on Endria, even if Sam’s added powers were helping. If he could just get a little closer to Sam, he might have a chance of getting through to him. If everyone’s assumptions were correct. He himself still wasn’t sure, but he had to try. 

The kiss, which started slow and gentle hastened quickly into something more primal, and Dean clenched his teeth as the pace of their breathing quickened. Then the other man’s hands began to wander down Sam’s shoulder to his chest. His fingers played with a pucker in the fabric, thumb brushing softly across the top and drawing a hungry moan from Sam’s lips. Sam’s hips shifted forward, rubbing forcefully against his partner’s and eliciting an even deeper groan that rolled through Dean like wildfire.Dean’s control snapped. 

“Take your hands off him,” Dean snarled, not sure whether he was talking to the witch in Sam’s body or the man that was currently fingering the zipper to Sam’s pants. The bulge under the fabric sent a surge of heat to his own; he tried to swallow it down, hoping that the dark lighting in the room would obscure his guilt. 

Sam laughed again, this time a sound laced with a breathy wilderness that challenged Dean’s self-control yet again. “Or what?” Dean fought hard to keep still, noticing a slight give in his captors’ grip. Endria started forward, her movements smooth and languid. Sam’s hazel eyes scanned Dean’s body unabashedly from head to toe. His eyes widened when they reached Dean’s groin. 

“Disgusting.” Sam’s voice held surprise, venom, and something else Dean couldn’t quite place. While it was only a word, and in a tone so alien to Sam’s voice Dean knew it wasn’t him, it was enough to cool Dean off. He swallwed, hoping Parker hadn’t noticed his reaction. Sam’s body eyed him a moment longer, before Endria turned to return her attentions to her waiting partner.

Dean realized his moment to escape had come; Endria’s surprise had loosened her control just enough that he felt the hands on his arms and shoulders loosen. Before she could have a chance to gain control again, he ripped his arms from their grip and tore forward, planting a hand firmly on either side of Sam’s shoulders and drawing his face close, meeting Endria’s shocked anger with a pleading look. 

“Sammy, I know you’re in there. Please, come back. I need you,” He said desperately as Endria struggled to free her shoulders from his grip. Sam’s hands found Dean’s chest, trying to shove him away. He could feel the magic building under Sam’s fingertips. “Sammy, please,” he nearly whispered, the hope that this plan of theirs would work already fading; he prepared to be flung across the room, tightening his grip in the hopes that the eventual impact with the wall would be lessened. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Sam’s chest, waiting. 

Instead, Sam’s hands slackened slightly, fluttering with uncertainty as Dean’s gaze flew again to Sam’s face. Sam’s hazel eyes trembled, one lit with a cold fury mixed with panic, the other welling with guilt, disbelief, and grief. “Dean,” Sam said, gaze shifting from pupil to pupil to take in the expression in Dean’s own eyes. The fury and panic faded from his right eye, until the look on Sam’s face was no one’s but his own. His hands clenched the fabric of Dean’s shirt, trembling with effort as he fought to maintain control. 

“Yeah, it’ me, Sammy. I’m right here. I’m not going to leave you. I swear.” Dean said desperately, leaning forward as he tried to keep a grip on Sam’s shoulders, maintaining eye contact. 

“You’re...alive?” Sam managed, his voice straining. The trembling intensified. Dean tightened his grip, realizing that unless he did something Sam was going to lose control again. Sam stared at Dean, who raised a hand to grip Sam by the neck, drawing their faces even closer. Despite their proximity, Sam’s question still hung in the air between them like a silent wall, and Dean saw with dismay that the veil he had seen over the other men’s eyes had begun to slide back over Sam’s gaze. 

“I’m alive, Sammy, I’m right here. Stay with me, dammit.” He squeezed Sam’s neck, their gazes locked. “Please Sammy,” he whispered as the emotions on Sam’s face slowly faded into nothing. The trembling stopped, Sam’s long fingers relaxing their grip on Dean’s shirt. Dean felt a firm shove, followed by countless hands as the rest of her henchmen wrapped their fingers around him, prying him away. He struggled in vain, watching with dismay as the cold hatred returned to Sam’s eyes, mixed with a look of fear that hadn’t been there before. 

“How did you…” Endria trailed off, trying to temper the edge of panic in her tone to one of cool disinterest. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I had hoped to draw this out, but it seems I’ll have to take my leave for now. Pity, as this place was absolutely perfect for my needs. Sam has been very...useful...in acquiring new victims,” She said, gesturing to the room. “Ah well.” She spun on her heel, the movement too elegant for Sam’s oversized form. She turned to the man who had been molesting Sam’s body earlier. “Kill them both. I can’t have any loose ends.” He nodded and started forward. Endria faced Dean again, giving him a mocking wink. “Ta-ta,” she said with a snap of her fingers. Once again, she disappeared. Dean swore. 

The room seemed to freeze, as if the tension in the air had immobilized everyone present. Dean eyed the room, trying to assess how many he could take down before they were overwhelmed. Even untrained, thirty men seemed to be a little above his skillset. He wished he had some way to call Cass for a little backup. As if hearing Dean’s plea, the tension shattered as Castiel burst quickly through the door, followed by a reluctant Crowley and an irritable Rowena. Men were upon them in seconds; Dean grit his teeth and slammed his head back into one of his captor’s faces. He heard a yelp as Parker bit the hand gripping his left shoulder before pulling himself free. 

“Don’t kill anyone,” Parker shouted as he slammed a fist clumsily into another man’s jaw, “They’re being controlled.” Castiel had made his way to Dean’s side and was tossing men off of him left and right, unimpeded by their punches. Crowley flung bodies about the room with a look of boredom, barely lifting a finger with each throw. Unfazed, the men would clamber back to their feet as soon as they hit the ground.Rowena strolled into the middle of the room, somehow passing through the fight unnoticed, and ran her fingers through the fine purple dust on the floor. She smiled victoriously, then threw her hands up into the air with a shout. All of the men in the room froze; she threw her hands to the ground as she shouted another strange word, and in an instant all of their attackers crumpled to the ground. A thin grey smoke curled from their ears, mouths, and noses, lingering in the air in a dirty haze. Rowena pressed her hands together and molded the smoke into a small grey gem that clattered to the floor. Dean watched her with suspicion as she plucked the gem from the floor and slid it into her pocket. 

The bodies on the ground were motionless, crumpled in odd angles across the floor. Dean crouched and pressed his fingers to one of their throats, heaving a sigh of relief as a strong pulse met his fingertips. “He’s alive.” He said. 

Parker checked another man. “This one too.” Dean’s relief that all these men weren’t dead was muted by the realization that their plan had failed. He had lost Sam again. He punched the floor, ignoring the hot sting of ripping skin against the rough stone.   
“I thought you said she wouldn’t teleport like that again,” He said accusatorily, eyeing Rowena with unmasked anger. 

“Unless she managed to devour 50 victims, which by the look of this room, I’d say she easily managed.” Crowley said, eyeing the VIP room with an expression that looked almost impressed. Well, impressed and queasy. 

Dean knew he didn’t want to look at the mess, but forced himself to take in the damage. He swallowed back a wave of nausea, immediately turning away as he retched. Parker, the smartest of the bunch, chose to hang back, out of sight of the carnage. 

“Not to worry, though,” Rowena said cheerily, the tone severely out of place with their current surroundings. “We won’t have to worry about a repeat of this failure the next time.” 

“What did you do?” Castiel asked, his threatening growl forceful enough to rival Dean’s own. Dean shifted his gaze between the two of them, surprised and anxious. The angel had crouched next to the remnants of the bracelet, holding a handful of the dust as he glared at the witch. 

She huffed, offended. “I merely sealed her ability to gain power from outside sources; I realized it was possible she could have gathered enough power to escape a second time, and I wanted to prevent the possibility of a third.”

“A spell that requires a living human sacrifice, if I remember correctly,” Crowley said, not upset by the idea in the slightest. “Wherever did you find the time?”

“A good witch always comes prepared. I knew she and I would cross paths someday. I’d be a fool not to have it, considering her abilities. I just needed someone to get it close to her, seeing as she could sense me and has evaded me thus far. Thank you, Dean.” She met his glare with a smile. 

“This spell could have killed both of them,” Castiel said, unrelenting. Dean felt his anger flare up to match his friend’s. 

“But it didn’t.” Rowena said with a patient sigh. “You can go back to hating me later. For now, we have a witch to track. But before that, let’s return to your room, shall we? I doubt we’ll want to be here when this lot wakes up.” She kicked a limp arm for emphasis. Parker let out a sound of protest, and with an indulgent smile, Rowena carefully picked her way across the room, lifting her skirts so as to be sure she wouldn’t step on anyone else. When she made it to his side, she took his arm in hers and had him escort her the rest of the way out. 

Cass and Dean shared a look that shared their mutual distrust of their companions. While Rowena’s spell had gained them an advantage, it had driven home the point of just how little she and Crowley cared for the outcome of Sam’s life. It would be their responsibility to keep him alive. 

“How did you know we were in trouble?” Dean asked, reviewing their fortuitous appearance in his head. 

“He called us,” Castiel said, nodding to Parker who was trying to extricate himself from Rowena’s clutches. Dean eyed him again. He must have dialed them as soon as the men had grabbed them; had he done it through the fabric of his pocket? How had he managed to do so unnoticed? Once again, Dean had to acknowledge that the kid was impressive. _He handled this whole situation better than you_ , an accusatory voice said in his head. Dean simply shook the thought off. There were a hundred feelings he needed to address, but they would all have to wait. Sam needed protection, not just from his captor but from two of his rescuers as well. And Dean was going to die before he falied Sam again. 

“Let’s go,” he said simply, making his way toward the door.


End file.
